United We Stand, Divided We Fall
by Carapatzin
Summary: To hedge his bets against the coming Blight, Duncan rescues not one but four recruits on his way to Ostagar. These are the adventures, trials, and hardships of a grieving Dalish elf, a noblewoman with a penchant for bad jokes, a self-conscious healer, and an enchanter who's probably in love with fireballs. The fate of Ferelden, unfortunately or not, rests on their shoulders.
1. Burning Bright

_Hello all! And welcome to my Origins fic, the loose prequel to Tale of Two Lavellans. Even though it's not as far along. Yay? For those who started reading this much earlier on, the early introduction chapters have been edited to better capture the characters involved. (And to correct Corvis's use of Antivan language, when he uses it.)_

_Be prepared for canon-divergence, since there ARE four Wardens (and there will be a surprise fifth joining up at the very end.)_

_Cheers! Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

**Burning Bright**

Corvis chucked a book over his shoulder, tapping his foot in impatience.

He knew First-Enchanter Irving was scheduled to receive an important guest today. Not that Irving had _told _Corvis of this, even though Corvis was one of his best enchanters; he'd had to eavesdrop the information out of a few gossiping Templar higher-ups. Of course, the Templars had only mentioned said guest's arrival, and _not _said guest's identity—Corvis would have to do a bit more snooping.

He had an apprentice to teach in ten minutes or so. For now, organizing his desk would relax him, cool his thoughts.

Picking up a quill pen made from a peacock feather—_il pavone bello, _a lovely rarity in Ferelden—he dipped the tip in ink and set about making labels for the paperwork on his desk.

Reports had to be written for each apprentice, and Corvis had a couple of his own. Budding elementalists, if he was any judge. That was why they'd been assigned to him, at any rate. He plucked a small, square piece of parchment from one of his desk drawers—intended for labeling purposes—and wrote _draft lessons plans _on it as he set it neatly on top of the apprentices' reports.

There was a new letter on his desk, recently arrived. He spied the signature at the bottom, _Sofia Agostini Nalida, _and smiled fondly.

If there was one thing he could do for ages without tiring of it, it was writing to his mother.

He hadn't seen her in eighteen years. The very last memory he had of her was watching her shriek profanities and throw everything in sight at the pair of Templars taking him away. He'd been seven years old.

There was a Templar discourse on his desk as well, likely passed around to all enchanters and senior enchanters and whatnot. Something about reminding them to make sure their apprentice underlings conducted themselves properly while using the library resources. Corvis wrote _utter bullshit _on a label, plopped it blatantly on top of the written discourse, and smirked.

How much time had that been? He checked the timepiece on his desk.

Two minutes only. _Mannaggia._

He'd sit down and read his mother's letter, when he had a lot more time to pore over it and write appropriate responses. Sofia wrote incredibly long letters, dotted all over with impeccably drawn heart symbols; if it was anyone else, he might've wrinkled his nose at the sappiness of it all, but his mother could get away with anything.

He checked the timepiece again. He _could _try playing another round of solitaire—mentally, of course, he had no playing cards at the moment—but decided against it. Mental chess? No one else in Kinloch Hold had ever been up for it. Praying at the tower's small chapel might have been an option for some, but Corvis had never believed in any Maker.

"Enchanter Nalida, are you in here?" a voice called outside the door of his dormitory, and he lifted his head, watching a redheaded woman peek into the room. "Ah, there you are. May I come in?"

"Of course," he said, offering a half smile and ushering her in. Petra, her name was; she was a little younger than him and only a Mage, not yet appointed to Enchanter or anything higher. "You can call me by my first name, you know."

"I'm so sorry, I keep forgetting." Her cheeks flushed a bit, and she flickered her gaze from his eyes to the floor, then back up to his face. "I heard Anders is supposed to return from solitary confinement soon. Did you know that? I'm sure he's missed you."

"Oh? Is he the special guest Irving is supposed to receive today?" Corvis rather missed Anders. The mage was always wreaking havoc on the Templars here, and the majority of his pranks had been nothing short of hilarious. Corvis vaguely recalled helping him spread rumors a while back about some hidden passageways in the walls; the Templars had been pressing their ears to the walls for days.

But, special guest he was likely not. If Petra knew who the guest was, though, she'd correct him, and he'd have his information.

Roundabout, possibly. He could've just _asked. _But the direct method wasn't often as foolproof.

"Oh, no, no—the guest is already here! He's a _Grey Warden." _Petra looked equally curious and nervous. "I was in the library on the first floor when he arrived. I think he wants to…_recruit _someone."

Corvis lifted an eyebrow, pushing out his chair and standing.

"Actually…" Petra continued, "he's been talking a lot about you."

Oh, now _this _was interesting.

Corvis remembered a fair deal of the outside world from his seven years of it—mostly the trading routes between Antiva City and Denerim, along with all of the trading practices his merchant father had drilled into his head—but Grey Wardens had always been something of a mystery to him. Who _were _they, exactly? What were they fighting right now? The Circle library had disastrously few resources on the Wardens, and he'd scoured just about every book in the building.

A curiosity, at the very least.

"I might as well speak with him and hear what he says firsthand, _si?" _Corvis said.

"They say you're a _really _good mage." Petra followed him as he made for the door, her hand just briefly brushing his arm. "I know you're good at a lot of things."

She'd disguised it as simple praise, but Corvis knew better. And he might have taken her up on her incredibly subtle offer if he wasn't already scheduled for a tutoring session.

"So they say," he said with a slight laugh, continuing out of his room and down the curved stone hallway. A couple of mages, both men with similar shades of brown hair, were walking the opposite direction down the hall; one of them looked Corvis up and down as he passed.

"Might I walk with you?" Petra asked, keeping pace with him, her mage robes swishing around her ankles. "I'm going the same way you are."

"If you like," Corvis said, continuing.

He'd work with the apprentice, first. Then he'd find this Grey Warden and satisfy his own curiosity.

* * *

Ellairia Surana groaned as someone gently nudged her awake. Caught in blissful sleep as she was, she resisted the urge to open her eyes, and instead stubbornly flipped onto her stomach and buried her face in her pillow, sealing out the world.

"Come on, Ellie, wake up," the voice said. "Are you all right?"

She swiveled her head to the side, opened one eye, and saw her friend Jowan standing there, black hair disheveled as usual. He never brushed it, no matter how many times she offered to do it for him.

"Demon," she grumbled. She stuck her hand out, palm forward. "Die."

"It's me, Jowan!" he said, backing up a step. "Easy! I know you're just waking up from your Harrowing, but…try to relax."

That she was. Bits and pieces came back to her, like memories of a dream she'd had…maybe because she _had _been in the realm of demons and dreams, the Fade, during the middle of the night. The Templars had roused her from her sleep to finally take her Harrowing, and they'd used a pool of lyrium to send her into the Fade; she barely remembered solving the sloth demon's riddles, fighting the rage demon, and resisting the pride demon Mouse's trickery. It all seemed like years ago. But she might as well milk the trauma with Jowan, if only for a bit of friendly fun.

"Help me up?" she said, rolling onto her back and holding up her hand.

Jowan grasped her hand and helped her sit up. "I'm glad you're all right. That Templar, Cullen, carried you in this morning. I didn't even realize you'd been gone all night. I've heard about apprentices who never even come back from Harrowings. Is it really that dangerous? What was it like?"

"Oh, _Jowan," _she said, raking her blonde hair out of her face. "It was…_harrowing."_

"Is that why they don't tell us what it's about?" he asked; he'd never been one to catch dumb humor. "I know I'm not supposed to know about it, but we're friends, right?" His voice reached a higher pitch than she was sure even _hers _went. "Just a little hint and I'll stop asking, I promise!"

"You know I can't," she chided.

He huffed. "Oh, fine. And now you get to move to those nice mage quarters upstairs. I'm stuck here, and I _still _don't know when they'll call my for _my _Harrowing."

True, that _was _a benefit to passing the Harrowing… She'd have to gather her things from the chest in the apprentice dormitory and carry them upstairs to her new room, whichever one First Enchanter Irving decided she could have. The thought excited her. Her own room, her own tub to bathe in…_wow._

"Jowan, it'll be fine," she reassured him. "They'll call you."

"I've been here longer than you have!" he protested. "Sometimes I think they just don't want to test me. You do the Harrowing, you do the Rite of Tranquility…or you die. That's what happens. And I don't want either of the other options."

"Maker's breath, Jowan." Ellie blew upwards, stirring a fluffy tendril of hair. "They won't kill you."

"They might not. But the Rite of Tranquility is just as bad…maybe worse." He looked worried.

Ellie knew all about the Rite; the Tranquil were all over the Circle tower, after all. She didn't mind them much; eerily collected as they were, they didn't pose any threat to her. Owain, who ran the stockroom, was one of them.

"Like Owain." Jowan kept going, echoing her thoughts. "He's so cold. No, not even cold. There's just…nothing in him. It's like he's dead, but still walking. His voice, his eyes…lifeless…"

"Here I thought you'd come by to congratulate me, like a normal friend," Ellie teased.

"I suppose I shouldn't waste your time with this," Jowan admitted. "I was supposed to tell you to see Irving sometime today. He said it's not urgent, just make sure you don't forget. And, well…we can speak later." Worry lines all over his forehead, he turned and walked away, leaving the dormitory and heading Maker knows where.

Jowan was a strange friend, she knew, but she'd always appreciated his presence in her life. They were close to the same age—seventeen, give or take a few months—both brought to the Circle as children, both going through training stages at roughly the same times. He was a decent mage. Irving praised Ellie highly, but she didn't let that get to her head; he probably praised all the young ones that way.

She didn't bother grabbing her things just yet; Irving would tell her where to take them shortly. Not very hungry after last night, she decided to head upstairs instead.

Her route took her out into the hallway, where she listened to her footfalls echoing through the stone corridors as she walked briskly through them. The Templars had left her in her apprentice robes for the night, thank goodness – they hadn't tried to change her out of them. Creepy. Happy to be done with the Harrowing forever, she picked up her pace and did a little skip into the training rooms, pausing only to look up at the towering shelves of books with a sense of awe as she always did.

"Come now, are you a frail old lady?" she heard a smooth Antivan voice say past one of the towering shelves. "Would you rather _knit _than hold up that ward? Because I could use a pair of stupid fuzzy socks. Red ones. You're being too timid. Have a little faith in yourself."

"But…but…your fireballs are…"

Ellie peeked around the corner and watched. The enchanter threw his hands in the air with a burst of Antivan words and tried again. "My fireballs are—what? Fireballs? _Bambino, _if you're afraid of fire, it either won't come to you at all or it will blow up in your face. That's the point of this ward exercise. Let go of your fear. _Then _you can wield a flame properly."

The apprentice's knees knocked together – he was a young lad, several years her junior, and his face was pale as death. "You're going to burn me!"

The enchanter sighed.

Ellie leaned against the dark wooden shelf, sighing herself. Out of all the things in the tower, this enchanter was her favorite thing to study. His name was Corvis Nalida, and she knew he'd been born to Antivan parents but likely in Ferelden—that was why he was here. He had dark skin, wavy hair black as pitch, and amber eyes that always blazed as hot as his favorite spell: the fireball. As far as she knew he'd only been promoted to enchanter a couple years back, which meant he'd been too young and she too old for him to take her on as apprentice.

A tragic shame, really. She would've done anything for his attention.

"Make her do the wards," the apprentice begged, pointing at Ellie and giving her away. "She just passed her Harrowing, after all. Maybe I'll switch to the frost school."

Corvis glanced at Ellairia, who stood up straight and cleared her throat. "But _she _hasn't expressed an urge to make fire at least fifteen times in the past week," Corvis said, giving her a charming smile. "I heard about the test, Ellairia. Congratulations. You did well."

"Thank you," she said, bowing briefly.

Corvis glanced over at the shivering apprentice. "Run along, _bambino_," he said. "We won't get anywhere with you soiling your drawers. Go to the library and relax or something. And I'd better not find you in the lavatory vomiting buckets again. Calm your nerves. Enemies wouldn't be nearly as gentle as I was."

"Thank you, master," the young apprentice said, then darted away, back to the dormitories.

Chuckling, Corvis turned back to Ellairia. "So," he said, "was it anything like you expected it to be? The Harrowing, of course."

"It wasn't so terrible," she replied. "Do you…remember yours?"

"_Si, si,_" he said. "I was only sixteen. I had too much fun with it, as I recall. Irving said I was grinning the whole time I was in the Fade and half the Templars wanted to stab me out of alarm. Now, then… Were you heading somewhere? Or shall I throw a fireball at you too?"

"I was going to see the First Enchanter, actually," she said.

"Oh? Let me walk with you, then. I have business with him as well."

"What sort of business?" she asked.

"Oh, things." Corvis liked being vague, sometimes; Ellie wondered often if it was all part of being Antivan. "_Piccole cose. _Nothing you should concern yourself with."

Not that Ellie could _stop _concerning herself with anything and everything Corvis did. Half the Circle already knew she had a raging crush on him; but _he _never let on whether or not he knew, and it made her rather jittery sometimes.

Kinloch Hold was something of a bucket of drama, most of the time. Flirtations, pranks, arguments, cliques forming among small groups, gossip ringing through the halls. Still, she loved it here. She had a sturdy roof over her head, plenty of people to chat with, books upon books to read…not to mention Wynne, who had been teaching Ellie how to heal for years now and whom Ellie loved dearly.

But Wynne had left to join the King's armies, not too long ago. Ellie didn't know what they were fighting. She missed her.

"Were you awake when Irving's guest arrived?" Corvis asked, reaching the stairs leading to the next floor. He grasped the heavy door's handle and held the door open for her.

"What guest?" Ellie asked, slipping through the doorway.

"We shall see, I think," he said, letting the door shut behind him and continuing down the hall. He was much taller than her—being a human, after all, and not an elf like her—but she kept pace well enough.

"I'm just excited to get new quarters in the mage's dormitories," Ellie said, playing with her fingers as she walked.

"Oh, do be careful with those," Corvis said. "Rats come out of the walls at night. Horrible things lurk in the shadows. Irving comes into your room and watches you sleep."

"Oh…what—" Ellie started.

"I'm teasing," he said with a chuckle. "You'll like them, I'm certain. Much better than being crammed into a room like cattle with all the apprentices."

"I think so, too," she said with a big grin.

With any luck, that was what Irving wanted to see her about—promoting her to Mage and giving her new gear and new quarters. And her palms were sweaty with excitement as she and Corvis made their way down the hall.

Elation at her success with the Harrowing made Irving's quick talk with her pass by like she'd been somewhere outside her body during it, and seen it through a thick fog no less. Irving had introduced her to a tall, dark human with a thick, cleanly-clipped black beard, skin as dark as Corvis's, and kind brown eyes – a Grey Warden, he'd said. Ellie knew next to nothing about the world outside the tower, and so she hadn't the faintest idea of what a Grey Warden was. Still, the man – Duncan, he called himself – had been awfully polite to her, even going as far as to ask her about her healing talents and tell her Wynne had spoken highly of her at their camp down in Ostagar. He'd said something about dark-spawn or whatnot, but Ellairia hadn't wanted to ruin her happy mood, so she'd smiled and nodded and regretfully forgotten about it.

She'd left when Corvis gave Irving his report on the young apprentice, to give him privacy, and nearly run face-first into Jowan.

"Yeesh! I almost hit you!" she said. "What're you doing here?"

"Are you done talking with Irving?" he asked, his eyes full of unspoken tension.

"Sure, I am, what – "

"I need to talk to you." He shifted anxiously back and forth on his feet. "Do you remember what we discussed earlier this morning? I, um… We should go somewhere else. I don't feel safe talking here."

Her brows furrowed. "What's the matter?"

"I've been troubled. I'll explain. Come with me, please."

* * *

Corvis pored mentally, retroactively, over everything Duncan had said, memorizing each word and facial expression and inflection, not wanting to forget a word. Whatever the Warden's intentions, Corvis wanted to decipher them.

He leaned back in his chair in the library, tapping his fingers on the table in front of him. The chamber smelled of old leather-bound books and oak and the crisp, almost metallic crackle of magic; he pressed a finger hard under his nose to stifle a sneeze.

King Cailin Theirin was mustering a force at Ostagar to the south, Duncan had said, in an attempt to stem the tide of darkspawn welling up from the Wilds. Several of Kinloch's enchanters and senior enchanters had already left to join the forces. Corvis knew why Irving and Greagoir hadn't sent him yet; Greagoir didn't trust Corvis as far as he could throw him, and had said so, in those precise words. The Knight-Commander had, of course, brought up the traditional "Enchanter Nalida is secretly possessed by a Pride demon, there's no other reason he walks around with that smug look on his face" argument, which had started a thrilling argument between him and Irving about the validity of Corvis's supposed possession.

He'd nearly burst into laughter, but had refrained. Surely Greagoir could figure out on his own that _every _Antivan was prone to looking self-satisfied.

Thank all that was good for Irving; without him to stem the tide of Greagoir's fits, the Knight-Commander might've sent for the Rite of Tranquility by now.

It wasn't like Templars always needed valid reasons to make mages Tranquil.

Still, that had been a little while ago, and the subject of Duncan was more interesting to muse over. The man was here to recruit mages to the Wardens, no doubt about that—he didn't have to say so. But who?

"Enchanter Nalida," came Ellairia's voice, and the slender blonde elf trotted up to his table, robes swishing around her ankles. "Might I have a moment?"

"_Certo," _Corvis said, straightening in his chair. "What did you need?"

Brown eyes darting quickly to the floor, Ellairia wrung her hands together, looking troubled. "I have need of a rod of fire, and I was hoping you could sign off for one. I won't damage anything with it, promise."

"Rod of fire, mm?" As far as he knew, she'd never been interested in the elemental schools of magic. The only shock spell he'd ever seen her try had fizzled into sad nothingness the second she'd tried to summon it, and she'd stuck to the healing and spirit arts ever since. "Whatever for?"

"It's…" She scrubbed the back of her neck. "…personal."

"You can't think of a reason that's slightly more descriptive?"

Her face turned a soft shade of rose. "I guess I just decided I wanted to research…burning things."

Corvis raised an eyebrow. _Right. Sure. _"Did Owain send you for a signature? He mentioned you needed one from a _senior _enchanter, yes? And I'm fairly certain I can't qualify as a senior quite yet. Give it twenty more years."

"Oh. Drat." Ellairia's thin shoulders slumped, and Corvis could almost hear her spirits hit the floor with a wet, dreary thunk.

"But don't fret," Corvis said. "I picked up one from Owain a couple of days ago, to help an apprentice. I'll let you have it for a day. But _only _set fire to things that aren't alive, _capisce? _Or Templars. They don't count. Burn them to your heart's content."

"Thank you!" she exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I'll wait here while you get it. Thank you _so much. _I'll make it up to you, I swear it."

If anyone else had said they'd make it up to him, Corvis would've assumed they were offering to trade something of the more sexual variety for his efforts. Not an uncommon thing around here, surprisingly enough. But this was _Ellairia Surana; _he was fairly certain her mind had never traveled to such lewd places in her entire life.

"It's no trouble," he said, getting to his feet.

If anything…things in the Circle were about to get doubly interesting today.

* * *

It was strange, how easily plans went awry.

The rod of fire hadn't worked on the blasted door after all. Lily, who was apparently Jowan's secret lover that Ellie hadn't heard about until a few minutes ago, had realized with a start that the magical wards on the door were much too powerful even for a fiery blast. So they'd gone the long way round, not to mention fighting animated suits of armor and things that looked like miniature dragons with worm heads. Ellie, being a healer, had stayed out of the fighting and kept Jowan and Lily unharmed, for the most part.

Eventually they'd discovered a room within the grey stone chasms, a room that shared a wall with the phylactery chamber. Good fortune had smiled on them today, and one of the walls was rotting to the point of crumbling into little gravelly bits; even better, a strange dog statue that apparently magnified every magical effect stood facing the wall. The rod of fire had worked splendidly then, blasting the wall apart and allowing all three of them into the chamber.

Ellie had felt a strange, sickening sense of unease when Jowan had finally reached his phylactery and had dropped it on the stone floor, shattering the glass. Crimson blood pooled below the crystalline shards.

Something didn't feel right. And she couldn't decide what exactly that was.

Jowan and Lily, intent on immediate escape, had charged up the stairs and out of the repository; Ellie had ran after them, keeping pace, only to skid on her heels and halt when she saw the welcoming party waiting for them outside.

First Enchanter Irving. Knight-Commander Greagoir. Three templars. All with stiff shoulders and disappointed frowns. All staring at the three of them.

"So what you said was true, Irving," Greagoir said; his voice held none of the triumph Ellie anticipated.

Ellie remained silent, hanging her head in shame. No words she could string together would free her from this mess she'd gotten herself in. She'd taken a risk trying to free Jowan, and here was that risk now, come back to slap her in the face.

"G-Greagoir," Lily stuttered, obviously barely holding herself together.

"An initiate, conspiring with a blood mage," Greagoir said, pointing a gauntleted hand at Jowan. "I'm disappointed, Lily."

Ellie's heart stopped for a beat.

Blood mage? They'd sent for the Rite of Tranquility because Jowan was a _blood mage? _He'd asked for her help, trusted her, fought alongside her, been her friend for their whole childhoods, and yet he hadn't mentioned he was a _blood mage? _Her eyes blurred. Her cheeks heated to the point of discomfort. She felt betrayed, utterly betrayed by someone who she'd trusted and stood behind nearly her entire life.

Her head spun.

"The initiate seems shocked," Greagoir continued, "but fully in control of her own mind. As does the healer. Not thralls of the blood mage, then. You were right, Irving. The initiate has betrayed us. The Chantry will not let this go unpunished." He gave Ellie a sour look. "And this one. Newly a mage, and already flouting the rules of the Circle."

_I'm dead, _Ellie thought. _I'm dead. There's no chance._

"It's not her fault!" Jowan said; whether that referred to Lily or Ellie remained unclear. "This was my idea!"

"I am disappointed in you, child," Irving said, his sad grey eyes boring into Ellie like a mining drill. She could barely stand.

"As Knight-Commander of the Templars here assembled," Greagoir announced, drawing on the full power of his commanding voice to silence Jowan and Lily when both began protesting, "I sentence this blood mage to death. And this initiate has scorned the Chantry and her vows. Take her to Aeonar. As for the young healer, well…" He turned a cold gaze to Ellie. "I will send for the Rite of Tranquility."

Ellie's knees threatened to knock together.

Whether or not Jowan felt remorse for sentencing Ellie to the same fate he'd been so desperate to escape from, he didn't say.

"The-the mage's prison?" Lily gasped as a Templar advanced on the three of them. "No! Please, no! Not there!"

"No!" Jowan screamed. "I won't let you touch her!"

He whipped out a knife and slashed his palm. Blood sprayed from the cut, making Ellie yelp in surprise and shield her face. Then Jowan shoved his hands forward and sick, twisted magic flooded out of them, too powerful to resist; the blast caught Ellie and she hit the floor, skidding a foot or two, her vision going black.

* * *

Ellairia's head felt like it had been crushed in a vice when she finally woke.

The rough, chilled stone floor was not a pleasant place to lie down on; her back had seized up by the time she tried to sit. She pushed herself to a sitting position, dizzy, her nerves tingling painfully all over her body. Her tongue felt like a swollen, useless lump in her mouth.

Her skin and robes were splattered with blackening blood; she looked like a crime scene. Blood stained the floor in telltale wave patterns, filling the air with its iron stench.

"I can't possibly imagine what happened here," she heard Corvis say from somewhere behind her.

She twisted to look at him. He was surveying the room at present, offering her a view of his aristocratic Antivan profile; to her shock, he himself didn't look terribly surprised by the bloody mess Jowan's magic had made.

"Enchanter Nalida," Irving groaned. "Help an old man up, would you? These old bones…"

"_Certo," _Corvis said, offering Irving his hand. Ellie watched his bicep flex as he all but hauled Irving to his feet.

"Where's Greagoir?" Irving said, steadying himself briefly on Corvis's arm before he let go.

"I _knew _it," the aforementioned Knight-Commander said; Ellie saw him get to his feet and help another Templar up. The other two Templars hadn't moved, and she couldn't see any swelling of their diaphragms beneath their armor. "Blood magic. But to overcome so many—I never thought him capable of such power."

Excuses tumbled through her head. _He hid this from me. I didn't know about this. I'm not a blood mage. I'm hurt too. He HID THIS FROM ME. _But she held her tongue.

"Jowan? A blood mage?" Corvis asked from behind her. "That one was full of surprises."

"_Surprises, _he says, as if the cook had announced there was a new kind of lunch meat on Tuesdays," Greagoir snapped. "Watch yourself, Nalida. I've had my eye on you for years."

Ellie blanched.

"Naturally," Corvis said, seemingly unfazed. "The idea of a mage having power makes you cry yourself to sleep at night. That, or you've had latent homosexual tendencies for years. This is a safe environment, Greagoir. Keep your eyes on male enchanters all you like."

Greagoir snarled. "_Enough_, or so help me, I will send a smite your way."

"I'd love to see you try."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Irving interrupted, his voice raspy and his eyes tight. "That's enough of that. Greagoir, Enchanter Nalida has always served the Circle well. Let's return to the situation at hand." He turned to fully face Greagoir, leaning on his staff. "Are you alright?"

"As good as can be, given the circumstances!" Greagoir snapped. "If you had let me act sooner, none of this would have happened."

Ellie barely stayed focused as Greagoir spotted Lily still standing in the corner and sentenced the poor girl to life in Aeonar's prison. Lily didn't deserve this; her shock at hearing of Jowan's magic, the betrayal clearly written across her face, the fact that she was still _standing _here, meant she had been deceived, just as Ellie had. But the Templars hauled her away regardless. She zoned out as Greagoir and Irving discussed her own Rite of Tranquility; Irving protested, but nothing he said could change the Knight-Commander's mind. Ellie would lose her connection to the Fade, and lose everything that came with it – her magic, her dreams, her feelings.

Everything.

And then someone new strode up to the them.

Ah, Duncan. They Grey Warden. A friendly face. He was in full armor now, a sharp sword at his belt, its steel glinting in the dim light of the tower.

"Knight-Commander, if I may?" Duncan said politely. Ellie turned to face him, wrapping her arms around herself; she needed to hug someone, but she'd have to suffice alone. "I am not only looking for mages to join the king's army. I am also recruiting for the Grey Wardens. I had originally come to recruit this enchanter," he gestured at Corvis, who nodded, like he'd known about it, "but both Irving and Wynne have spoken highly of this young healer, and I would like her to join the Warden ranks as well."

"_WHAT?" _Greagoir snapped, his head whipping so fast in Irving's direction Ellie thought it mightfly off. "You not only promised him one of our enchanters behind my back, but you recommended _another _as well?!"

"She has served the Circle well," Irving said, giving Ellie a pained smile that damn near broke her heart. "She would make an excellent Grey Warden, as would he."

Duncan's eyes were kind when he looked down at Ellie. "We look for dedication in our recruits. Fighting the darkspawn requires such dedication, often at the expense of all else."

"Absolutely not," Greagoir snarled. "This young one has aided and abetted a blood mage. And Enchanter Nalida _cannot_ be trusted farther than you can throw him."

"All because I apparently look smug," Corvis said. "Hooray."

Greagoir whirled on him. "You were _unfazed _by Jowan's blood magic. _Not to mention _you were spotted letting young Surana borrow your rod of fire, which she used to _tear down a wall into the repository._ I could easily have you charged with aiding and abetting, as well."

_Oh, Maker, _Ellie thought. _I implicated him. I've gotten him in serious trouble. Maker, Maker, Maker…_

"Greagoir, mages are needed," Duncan said calmly. "We have need of healers, and we have need of those with a powerful command of the elements. Worse things plague this world than blood mages—you know that. As such, I will take this young mage under my wing and accept full responsibility for her actions. And I will also be recruiting this enchanter. If I must use the Right of Conscription, I will do so."

"No arguments from me," Corvis said.

Greagoir tossed his hands in the air. "You can't be serious!"

"_Mangia merda e morte, _Greagoir," Corvis shot. "We're out of your control, now. You don't have jurisdiction over Wardens."

"Bloody thorn in my side," the Templar snapped, before forcibly composing himself. "_Fine. _These two mages are your issue, Warden. Investigating Jowan's escape will have to be my number one priority at the moment."

He turned on his heel and strode away. Irving offered Ellie a sad, disappointed look before he followed Greagoir, the only alive Templar striding after him.

No goodbyes. No parting words of wisdom. _Nothing. _Just a sad look and a sight of the First-Enchanter's back as he left them there. Much as Ellie's throat tightened over that…she couldn't be upset over the idea of seeing the outside world again.

And _Wynne. _Wynne was out there.

Hope took root in her heart.

"Well," Corvis said, looking down at her when she turned to look up at him, "that was rather exciting, wasn't it? I could use a five-year nap. And whiskey."

"Not yet, I'm afraid." Duncan chuckled. "Come, the both of you. Let me explain our course of action."

The plan unfolded – Duncan still had business in Highever and somewhere in the Brecilian forest, so Corvis and Ellie would travel south to Ostagar by themselves. According to Duncan, the darkspawn were still held at bay by the old fortress, so the roads leading to Ostagar would be safe. Ellie smiled and glanced in the direction she knew the front doors to be, knowing after years of wondering, she'd finally get a chance to see the world outside.

If that meant fighting darkspawn, it didn't matter – she'd just been given a second chance, and she didn't intend to squander it.


	2. A Different Kind of Shield

_A bit of time has passed between the previous chapter and this one. We're on Warden #3 now. Hope you enjoy!_

_[Dragon Age and its characters belong to Bioware.]_

* * *

**A Different Kind of Shield**

Palla Cousland rarely had trouble sleeping. She was one of those people who could be pelted with rocks while they slept and still never wake, a talent she found most fortuitous. Her dear mum had once said she always thought Palla was dead, and eventually forced herself to stop checking on her.

This night, however, Palla's sleep was fitful at best.

She dreamed of fire devouring the castle walls like a ravenous beast, dreamed of terrified screams and people running for their lives. She was vaguely aware of her body tossing and turning, twisting the blankets all around her in a sweaty cage, but she couldn't force herself awake. The screams grew louder, and Palla found herself screaming, until eventually she awoke to the sound of her own shrieking and realized Duncan was looking over at her.

"You are dreaming about your family, aren't you?" he asked gently as she sat up.

"Yes," she answered simply, looking away.

She rubbed her forehead, studying her surroundings. They'd camped in the shadow of a craggy hill in a small valley; she sat on her pile of furs, wrapped up in blankets to ward off the chill. She remembered where they were now: Duncan said he had business with the Dalish elves rumored to be in the area, and so they'd journeyed here, hoping to find the clan in a timely fashion.

Pain squeezed her heart. Only two weeks ago Duncan had escorted her out of Castle Cousland in Highever, rescuing her from the cold-blooded slaughter Arl Howe had planned for her family. She still couldn't close her eyes without seeing her father lying bloodied on the floor, begging her to run, and her mother kneeling at her father's side, refusing to leave him.

Every day for the past two weeks, she'd woken up screaming.

At least now the pain had lost its sharp edge, and it tended to dull with consciousness. Still, Palla would never forget, never stop hunting that bastard Howe down until she could drive her blade into his sniveling little head. And Fergus had left before the slaughter; he could still be alive. He _had _to be.

"I suppose I should really keep my voice down," Palla said, cracking a fake smile. "Wouldn't want to disturb the errant squirrel who's trying to catch some shut-eye."

Duncan said nothing, giving her a look like he could see right through her. And, Palla reasoned, he probably could.

She'd always been a smart-mouth, something that drove her parents to no small amount of frustration, especially when she sassed a nobleman or emasculated one of the castle guards. Secretly, though, she knew they had valued her sharp wit, and had loved her no matter what preposterous things came out of her mouth.

They wouldn't want her to give up her personality out of grief…right?

But it was hard to think that way.

"It's early in the morning," Duncan said; Palla noticed he'd already taken down his tent, rolled up his bedroll, and strapped everything to his back. Always ready to go, this guy. "I think we should pack up and head deeper into the forest. We're likely to come across a clan if we don't give up too easily."

Palla set about rolling up her own bedroll, stalwartly trying to ignore the early morning chill. The sky was iron grey above them, the green trees muted by the dim light. She distracted herself with her tasks as she'd been doing for the past two weeks, emptying her mind as her hands deftly took down her tent as if by their own will.

"Why are we seeking out the Dalish?" she asked Duncan.

"Our numbers are desperately in need of bolstering," he answered. "I've already sent two mages, a…_ahem_, cutpurse, and a knight ahead of us to Ostagar, and we have you now, but there's always need for more rogues, and no one is better at that than the Dalish. I've never witnessed another who could step so quietly, as if they weighed absolutely nothing. Rogues are invaluable in battle for their ability to stay out of sight and make lethal hits, and I anticipate quite the battle to come at Ostagar."

"And you think they'll willingly give up a clan member?"

He looked up at the sky, silent for a moment. "We Grey Wardens have the Right of Conscription, as you are well aware. But I do not wish to use it unless absolutely necessary, for fear of worsening the elven conceptions about us humans. No… I believe there is at least one hunter who will see the threat of the Blight and come willingly."

Palla certainly hadn't come willingly. She'd screamed at Duncan not to take her away, wailed that she could stay at Castle Cousland and protect everyone. Now, she realized even she would have perished in the attack, and only the thought of living long enough to rip apart Howe for what he'd done had gotten her to stand up and follow Duncan to safety.

She wished she could have saved at least someone other than herself. If Duncan did succeed in getting a Dalish recruit…well, Palla doubted she could stop herself from smothering that recruit and treating them like a fragile egg. No one else would die. Not if she could help it.

Her things packed, she strapped everything onto her back and followed Duncan through the forest. The babbling of a stream soothed her for a minute, made her forget what had happened as she zoned out and listened to it.

"It's a jolly good thing that Right of Conscription exists, isn't it?" she mentioned to Duncan as she stepped over a rotting log.

He didn't even acknowledge she'd spoken – it was probably for the best. Duncan was not one to encourage her use of dumb humor to bury her pain. Even so, she doubted she'd do anything else. Over the two weeks she'd been able to at least numb herself to her family's tragedy, all while making bad jokes about mundane things to pass the time.

It was the only way she knew how to cope.

Duncan held up a hand, stopping her. They'd been walking for several minutes now, and the sky was beginning to lighten, showing its first subtle hues of light blue. The grass felt squishy under her feet; when she lifted one boot, she saw it was soaked with mud.

"I sense – " he started, then abandoned the sentence altogether as a figure charged over a hill and dropped down right in front of them, waving its mace around like a barbarian.

Palla reacted first, letting out a war cry and hacking at the creature, who could barely get a figurative word in edgewise; it fell to the ground with a loud death rattle.

By the warty, black-and-green-skinned, monstrous look of it, the creature was a darkspawn. Palla had already seen a couple; for some reason Duncan couldn't pinpoint, they seemed to be drawn to these woods. She drove the blade of her sword into its ribcage for good measure, giving it a good twist and yanking it out.

"This is far too many to be chance," Duncan said, looking about. "I hope we haven't come too late."

So he thought the darkspawn in the forest might have already reached the Dalish clan and slaughtered the elves. Palla's will tightened into steel. Maybe it would do her some good, to reach the clan and save them from the oncoming creatures. But if they were already dead, she knew she'd break. Her carefully constructed shield would crumble all around her like an ancient stone wall.

She'd have to make sure that didn't happen. No matter who Duncan recruited, no matter how they felt towards her, she'd protect them like a mother mabari until she breathed her last breath, and then she'd keep on protecting them after.

It made her feel slightly better, she thought, to vow to save someone. Maybe she could even make a difference in someone's life. But until then…

Well, until then, she'd keep shoveling dirt over her grief, keep making jokes to dull the pain, and hope no one expected any different from her.


	3. My Wild Dalish Rose

_And onto the last one! :)_

* * *

**Wild Dalish Rose**

Shesi Mahariel slowly became aware that all of her blood had drained to her head, her limbs were swinging about like a rag doll's, and something pressed against her ribs. Her shoulder-length dark brown hair hung around her face, obscuring her vision, swishing with the motion; she squinted and coughed. Something was moving, carrying her, metal arms tight around her middle and holding her in place; she didn't have to open her eyes to decipher that.

But she did, regardless, fluttering her eyes open and struggling to keep them that way.

Her vision swam. How had she gotten here? She remembered cold cavern air, Tamlen kissing her, the rippling crystalline surface of a tall mirror in front of them. But in what order? Had all of them happened? Had any of them?

Tamlen was missing. She knew that with every fiber of her being.

And the man carrying her was too tall to be an elf, too muscular.

"_Shemlen_," she hissed, coughing, swinging aimlessly with her arms. "Put me down...I'll..."

"Quiet, child," the man said, stopping. "You are badly wounded and extremely ill."

_Why? How?_

"No…I'm not…" she tried to argue. Her muscles didn't want to move, and that scared her. "Where's…" _Tamlen_.

"Duncan, set her down," a woman said. "Let me talk to her."

The man grunted, lifting her off his shoulder with both hands and setting her on her feet. He acted like she weighed no more than a small scroll, if that. Shesi reached for her knife, stumbled, and fell right on her arse.

"Easy," the woman said, kneeling in front of Shesi. She had soft, fair features, pleasing enough for a shem: ivory skin, long red hair the color of a ripe persimmon. Her eyes, deep bluish green, held Shesi's own. "We're taking you back to your clan. We won't hurt you."

"Who…who are you?"

"I'm Palla," the woman said. "It's a pleasure to meet you… I wish it were under better circumstances. This is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens."

The man she spoke of, Duncan, had dark skin, black hair tied back, an equally black beard, and kind, deep-set eyes. Shesi was fascinated by his beard; elves didn't grow them. She wondered idly if it was soft or scratchy before another cough wracked her small frame. She didn't sense any evil in the _shemlen_, but that made no sense.

"We found you lying in a ruin not far from here," Duncan said. "You are very ill, child. It is a wonder you've woken up."

"She's barely awake at that," Palla said, leaning closer. "Look at her eyes."

"Where's…Tamlen…" Shesi asked. "Find him…"

She slumped over.

* * *

When she woke this time, she saw her clan-mate Fenarel kneeling next to her, a hand on her forehead. His blond hair threatened to fall over his eyes, and he blew upwards to feather it away. "You feel warm," he said, looking concerned. "Too warm."

Shesi gasped, gritted her teeth, and tried to sit.

"Easy, _lethallan_!" he said. "You're back at camp. Everyone's worried sick about you. How do you feel?"

"I…" She started to lie, to pretend nothing happened to her as she always did, but she couldn't bring herself to this time. Pain raced through her blood like poison, blurring her vision and making her tongue feel like a useless piece of meat in her suddenly dry mouth. "I feel horrible," she admitted.

More pieces of her lost mind came back to her. She remembered urging Tamlen not to do something, and him doing precisely that; he'd always been like that. Stubborn, stubborn man. What had he been touching? A mirror? That was it, _the_ mirror; something black and twisted had been on the other side of it.

"Come here," Fenarel said, holding his arm open; she sank into it, wanting comfort. "Where's Tamlen? What happened?"

"He's… I don't know… A mirror… Tamlen…" She struggled to form words, leaning her cheek against his bicep. "Gone…"

"He can't be," Fenarel said. "But…the shemlen who brought you here said they saw no sign of him."

"Humans?" she asked, suspicious.

"Yeah, Shess… They carried you back here two days ago. You don't remember?"

Shesi looked around her; she was on a pile of blankets in the grass under the shade of an aravel. She struggled to find her memories. A strong, dark-skinned man, a woman with hair like the sun's fire itself…but that was all.

"How could it be two days?" she wondered aloud.

"The man said they found you unconscious and alone," Fenarel explained. He squeezed her gently. "You're shaking. The keeper's been using the old magic to heal you, but honestly, you barely look any less sick…" He stood. "She wanted to talk to you as soon as you awoke, but I don't think you should be moving. Stay here. I'll get her."

He jogged off, and Shesi watched him go for a moment, blinking and trying to gain her bearings.

Shesi's muscles felt shaky, weak, overused; she knew better than to try to stand. Fainting now could result in a bad head injury, at the least. She rubbed her eyes angrily. Right now she should be sprinting back into the forest, searching for Tamlen, studying every track and scent and aura in the forest. It gave her no small amount of frustration and worry that she could barely even get up to look for him.

_I should have pulled harder_, she thought, suddenly remembering the mirror and Tamlen's scream. The angry thought had popped into her head before she even knew what had prompted it, but there it was. _I was there. I could have saved him._

Could she have?

The clan's Keeper, Marethari, approached a few moments later, concern etched all over the woman's aging face. "I see you are awake, _da'len_," she said, fondness softening her eyes. "It is fortunate Duncan found you when he did…"

Duncan. The Grey Warden, the man with the fascinating facial hair. Shesi never forgot details like that.

"I know not what dark power held you," Marethari continued, feeling Shesi's forehead, "but it nearly bled the life from you. It was difficult even for my magic to keep you alive."

"What about Tamlen?" Shesi asked urgently. "We need to look for him."

"Many of our hunters are already out looking for him," she said gently. "If he encountered the same thing you did, he could be gravely ill. The Grey Warden said he found you alone, already stricken with illness. Duncan thought there may have been darkspawn creatures within the cave. Is that true?"

"There was…a bear that looked dead but was alive," Shesi said. There. Another memory. She remembered the rotting flesh, the putrid smell, the bone spikes jutting from its massive, peeling body. "If that…makes many sense."

"Bereskarn," Marethari answered. She frowned. "A twisted creature, yes, but not darkspawn. What else did you find? What is the last thing you remember?"

"A…mirror," Shesi said. "Tamlen touched it."

"A mirror?" she repeated. "And it caused all this? Duncan did indeed mention a mirror…he said he and his recruit shattered it. I suppose his actions were necessary. I've never heard of anything like these mirrors in all the lore we've collected." She sighed heavily. "I was hoping for answers when you woke, but there are only more questions."

Shesi impatiently stubbed her toe against the dirt. She had as many questions as the Keeper, right now. "I have to find Tamlen, keeper. Please…let me go back there."

Marethari patiently crossed her arms over her chest, but Shesi could see the twinge of uncertainty in her eyes. "He is more important than any lore in those ruins. If he is as sick as you were, his condition is grave. But I must send others to find him, _da'len_. Merrill and Fenarel will look. I cannot risk your health."

"I have to go," Shesi argued. "I _will_."

"I was afraid you'd say that. I – " The keeper looked up as a woman approached. "Ah, I'll give you a moment."

"By the Creators, it is good to see you whole and well!" Ashalle exclaimed, pulling Shesi into a warm hug; Shesi buried her face in the woman's shoulder and bit her tongue to stop the tears from welling up. "I was so worried!"

"Please, don't worry about me," Shesi begged. "I'm not the one in danger right now."

"I can't help worrying for you, dear. I've raised you since your poor mother died." Ashalle gave her one last tight squeeze and stepped back. "Everyone fears Tamlen is dead… is it true?"

"No," Shesi said. "Of course not. He's not gone. I'll find him, I swear – "

"That's quite enough, _da'len_," the keeper interrupted. "Other hunters have been looking for Tamlen. You will _not_ be going back into the forest."

"I…" Ashalle frowned sympathetically, her brows knitting together. "I'm so sorry, dear. I know you and the lad are close. It was always my wish that you two would – no, let's not dwell on it." She smiled softly, kissing Shesi on the forehead. "I wish you a speedy recovery, da'len." With that she walked away, leaving Shesi alone with the keeper once more.

Shesi curled her arms around herself, staring at the ground. She idly scuffed her foot around, wondering why the keeper wouldn't allow her to go find Tamlen. After all, she'd recovered well enough, hadn't she? Shouldn't her clan have stopped worrying for her?

"I spoke to the Grey Warden while you were unconscious," Keeper Marethari explained to Shesi. "He has more grave news for you, I'm afraid."

"I will tell her myself, if you don't mind," Duncan said, appearing near them. Shesi looked past him and saw Palla, the redheaded warmaiden, letting one of the halla sniff her hand. The human woman looked troubled, much like Shesi did, and that was almost a relief. The halla briefly nuzzled Palla's fingers and returned to grazing, but Shesi didn't miss the soft smile that touched Palla's face.

"I do not," the keeper said. Shesi's attention returned to them.

"Your keeper tells me your name is Mahariel," Duncan said, nodding to Shesi. "It is a pleasure to meet you now that you're conscious. Your cure is only temporary, I'm afraid. The mirror you and your clan mate encountered was tainted, and now that darkspawn taint courses through your veins. That you've recovered at all is…remarkable. But eventually, the taint will sicken and kill you, or worse. The Grey Wardens can prevent that, but it means joining us. My order is in need of help. You are in need of a cure. When Lady Cousland and I leave, I hope you will join us. You would make an excellent Grey Warden."

Shit. _No_. She couldn't have been tainted. If she willed it away hard enough...would it just _go_ away?

"Thank you for your kindness," Shesi said, "but I can't accept. I feel better," a lie, "and I need to find Tamlen."

Duncan frowned. Once again Shesi was too curious about his thick beard to pay much attention to his expression. "Let me make this clearer for you: your cure is temporary. _You will die_."

"Then I accept my death. My duty is to my clan. To Tamlen." To the man she'd loved just about her whole life, to the man she'd apparently left to die in the ruins. The urge to find him was like a rash, spreading through her body with a ferocious itch to run into the woods and never return until she could do so with him at her side.

"Do not be so quick to forfeit your own life, _da'len_," Marethari admonished. There was kindness in her voice, and great worry. "Long ago, the Dalish agreed to aid the Grey Wardens against a Blight. We must honor that agreement. That is why you will be leaving with Duncan."

"I _what?!"_

"This is not simply charity," Duncan said. "Did you think my order was only comprised of warriors? Your keeper tells me you are the quickest dual-wielder in the clan, and we are always in need of those who have a keen eye and light foot."

"Again, I appreciate your comments, but I…" Shesi shook her head stubbornly. "I won't go."

Duncan's face was a stony mask. "Then I have no choice. I hereby invoke the Grey Wardens' Right of Conscription."

That sounded awfully formal. And…_binding_.

Marethari turned to look up at the tall, dark man. "And I witness and acknowledge your invocation, Duncan of the Grey Wardens. I cannot express my sadness at sending one of our daughters off into such danger, away from the clan who loves her, but neither can I watch her suffer a slow, agonizing death."

By the Creators. Shesi never threw tantrums, especially not since she'd endured the ritual to ink vallaslin into her face and become officially a grown woman, but she could feel a righteous storm of a tantrum brewing inside her. "You can't send me away!" she hissed. "What about Tamlen? I'm going with Merrill and Fenarel to look for him. Wherever he's been lost to, I could _sense_ him."

"Hush, child," Marethari said; she had one of those gentle looks that Shesi knew – from experience – hid bottomless depths of finality and resolve. When the keeper looked like that, she would never bend. Her will was like a stone carving – utterly immovable. "This is a storm even we cannot outrun. The Wardens need you. You need them. I will not watch your stubbornness take your life. You will be joining the Wardens, and _do not come back."_

Shesi's legs threatened to give out beneath her, and she felt a hot wave of fever pass through her body.

If it had been merely the _shemlen_ forcing the issue, Shesi might have done one of two things: either whipped her daggers out and started spinning and stabbing until she stood in a cesspool of grass and blood, or ran as swiftly as her legs would carry her until her lungs gave out. Perhaps both. But to be sent away by the Keeper herself… Shesi was at such a loss for words that she could do nothing but stare at the people in front of her, trying to swallow.

"I will allow you to say your proper goodbyes," Duncan said, his voice gentle. "Then we make for Ostagar in the south. Pack as much as you can carry on your back; it will take us a few days to get there."

Numb, Shesi turned and began wobbling away on her unsteady legs. Pack…she had to pack… had to leave… On her disjointed way to who-knows-where she nearly ran into Palla, Duncan's other recruit. The redhead's eyes met Shesi's, and the woman gave Shesi a knowing look when the latter stared at her and said absolutely nothing.

"Duncan is a kind man, you will find," the woman said. Her eyes were soft. "And we are very much needed by the Wardens." Her voice dropped to a low, sad pitch. "But this life was not my choice either, friend."

Someone who understood. Shesi would cling to that when the Grey Wardens yanked her away from her family, quite possibly for the rest of her life.


	4. Merry Band of Misfits

_Ah, Ostagar. An incredible experience the first time around, and the second...and then, on the sixth or so playthrough, I'm blowing through it as fast as I possibly can so I can get to the questing. I might be an impatient douche. :)_

* * *

**Merry Band of Misfits**

Shesi walked in Pala's shadow, dragging her feet. Her heart ached for Tamlen. He wasn't dead, he _couldn't _be – but as angry as she was that Duncan and Keeper Marethari hadn't allowed her to search for him, she knew somewhere in the back of her mind that she owed them both her life. And Palla, of course. The woman seemed normal-sized for a human, fairly petite even, but _strong. _A true warrior.

But what did her life matter? It should have been forfeit. She'd betrayed Tamlen by coming here, and she _hated _that.

"So this is Ostagar," Palla said, looking around them. "I've never been so far south. How about yourself?"

"Once or twice," Shesi said.

The white stone columns of the fort rose up around them, taller than any tree Shesi had seen; she felt impossibly small among these giant people and giant buildings. Men and women in full suits of armor bustled about; Shesi saw warriors and blacksmiths and people who Palla explained were Chantry priests and Circle mages. All of this newness made her dizzy.

The king of Ferelden had greeted Shesi, Palla, and Duncan briefly at the bridge, immediately recognizing Palla; from what Shesi gathered, the warrior-woman was nobility. The surname "Cousland" didn't sound familiar to Shesi. The king had been pleasant enough to her, innocently curious about her Dalish clan, but she knew she barely belonged here. From what she gathered, the Dalish were something of a myth among humans, a fact that made people stare at her with mixed expressions as she walked past.

"Hold your head high," Palla said, slinging an arm around Shesi's shoulders. "Stand tall. You're not here just because Duncan pitied you."

"Thank you for trying, _shemlen_," Shesi said politely. She forced herself not to jerk away from Palla's unfamiliar touch; the woman meant no harm by it. "But I don't hang my head out of self-consciousness."

"You're upset," Palla guessed. "I understand. _Really, _I do."

Shesi knew she did. Palla had explained on the road to Ostagar how she'd been forced to leave her parents to die back in the castle she'd grown up in, how she still feared for her brother's life and hoped desperately he lived. Shesi hadn't missed her huff of frustration when King Cailin said her brother couldn't be contacted, if he was still alive at all. If anyone knew of grief, it would be her. And Shesi was thankful for that, as horrible as it sounded – not thankful for Palla's pain, but for her understanding.

"I know." Sweat beaded on Shesi's brow; she could feel the darkspawn corruption inside her, spreading through her body like frigid poison. If they didn't complete the joining soon, she would die. She knew that much.

"Move on at your own pace," Palla said. "I will too."

Shesi just nodded.

"Now, who were we supposed to look for… Alistair?" Palla said. "That his name? I suppose he's somewhere around here? Let's find him, shall we?"

Shesi nodded again and followed her.

As they passed a merchant of sorts, he gave Shesi a suspicious glare, motioning both women forward. "You there, elf! What in the world are you wearing? And what's that paint all over your face? I'm missing that shipment, and I've been – "

"Shove off," Palla snapped. "Don't make me cut out that tongue of yours and feed it to that prisoner over there in the hanging cage, because _believe me, _he'd eat it."

The merchant held his hands up in a defensive gesture, looking horrified, but Shesi only spared him one last glance before she hurried after Palla. She'd been treated like dirt by _shemlen _since the first time she'd laid eyes on one; why should this man be any different? People like Duncan and Palla were kind enough, but Shesi expected them to slip, expected them to ask her to carry all their junk or call her a servant or something.

"Is that him?" Shesi asked when she and Palla climbed up a wide stone ramp and came upon a young man in a suit of armor clearly having an argument with a Circle mage.

"Looks like it," Palla said.

The Circle mage huffed loudly and stormed away, brushing roughly past Shesi, who staggered and caught herself. She glanced up at Alistair, studying his appearance so she'd remember it: he was a handsome enough man, strong shoulders, tawny hair and lightly tanned skin, but she couldn't look at anyone right now without seeing Tamlen's face.

"One good thing about the Blight," Alistair said, smiling, "is how it brings everyone together."

Shesi just stared.

"Ha! You're a strange one," Palla said.

"So I've been told," Alistair said. "I take it you both are the new recruits?" He looked at Shesi. "You're Dalish, aren't you? I've seen tattoos like those before."

"_Vallaslin," _she corrected. "But yes. I am Dalish." She'd received her _vallaslin, _her blood writing, just a few months back when she reached eighteen years and came of age. Hers had come out bluish grey; she'd always foolishly hoped for green, but after enduring the ritual, she no longer cared what color they were. She was proud of them all the same. Tamlen had undergone the blood writing ritual two years before her, she remembered.

Alistair turned to Palla. "And you must be – "

"Bryce Cousland's youngest," Palla said. Shesi detected a twinge of sadness in her voice.

"But of course," Alistair said. "You look just like your brother, although I'm told Fergus doesn't have that flaming red hair of yours. We could use _you _as a beacon if our lights ever go out."

Palla laughed, erasing all traces of sadness from her face with deceptively little effort; Shesi could read people well, and she knew there was deep pain under the surface there. "I'll put your lights out any time," Palla said. "All you have to do is ask."

"Point taken," Alistair said. He began walking and motioned for them to follow him. "You know, it just occurred to me…there haven't been many female Grey Wardens. It's rather unusual for Duncan to recruit three at the same time."

"Want more women in the order, do you?" Palla asked.

Shesi struggled to keep up with their longer strides. "Three women? There are other recruits here?" she asked him.

"Four others. Now that you've explored the camp, I'll fetch them and bring them both to Duncan so we can get underway." He looked bothered. "I've met two already. An enchanter and a new mage. This could spell trouble."

Mages didn't bother Shesi. Keeper Marethari had always used magic to protect and help their clan. Her first, Merrill, did the same.

Palla raised an eyebrow. "Why's that?"

"Well, you see," Alistair said, "I used to be a Templar."

"Awkward," Palla said.

"Indeed. My background makes mages nervous. And nervous mages make me nervous. I don't want to be a toad. I like the way I am." He cleared his throat. "Anyway, as the junior member of the Order, I'll be accompanying you as you prepare for the Joining. Let's be off, shall we?"

* * *

Shesi stared into the towering bonfire, barely aware of Duncan greeting the new recruits as they took their places near her. Eventually she forced herself to look up and study them, only so she could remember their faces should she ever need to. The appearance of the two mages startled her – one was human, dark-skinned and pleasing to look at, with blood-red tattoos around his eyes. The other, Shesi noticed with a surprised little smile, was an elf woman, just like herself. This elf had short, tousled blonde hair and little crinkles around her brown eyes that made it seemed like she laughed often.

Alistair returned with a rather homely knight and another man, a dark-skinned rogue.

"We've many introductions to make," Duncan said. "I'll start with our friends from the Circle tower." He gestured to the man. "This is Corvis Nalída, enchanter of the Ferelden Circle, and this – " he gestured now to the elf woman, " – is Ellairia Surana, newly a Harrowed mage."

"Pleased to meet you all," Ellairia said, staring at Shesi for a particularly lengthy amount of time. Shesi wasn't surprised; other elves in particular were always fascinated with the Dalish. Pol, a flat-ear they'd taken in a little while, always had a queer habit of pinching himself in the cheek every few minutes. Corvis, the human mage, just bowed his head once.

Duncan introduced them next to Jory, a knight from Redcliffe, the one Shesi thought was rather homely, and then to Daveth, whom he called a "fellow" from Denerim. That probably meant Daveth had committed a crime or two, and Shesi liked that.

"Charmed," Daveth said, nodding to all of them. His eyes, Shesi noticed, lingered on Palla; whose didn't? "It's about bloody time you folks came along."

"And this is Palla Cousland," Duncan said, stalwartly ignoring Daveth, "daughter of the teyrn of Highever."

Palla gave them all a surprisingly graceful curtsy. Yes, Shesi could see her noble blood now – the way she carried herself, the confident strength in her eyes, the smooth white skin that had obviously been taken care of, the absence of any gnarls or twigs in her long, silky red hair.

Duncan gestured to Shesi as Palla put a friendly hand on her shoulder. "This is Shesi Mahariel, joining us from the Sabrae clan, who have already made their way north. For her sake, I will not delay explaining the Joining to you all." He turned to Alistair. "Assuming, of course, that you're done riling up mages."

"I wouldn't recommend riling that one up," Ser Jory said, jerking his thumb towards Corvis. "I just watched him set fire to a bundle of logs for utterly no reason, smiling the whole time. It's a damned good thing nobody was near."

Corvis grinned a wide grin. "Or do you just _think _you saw that? Was it real? Am I even real? Are _you _even real?"

Ser Jory visibly swallowed, looking confused.

"And they let you teach the children," Ellairia said with a small, fluttery laugh.

"Right," Alistair said, "if we could all refrain from being turned into frogs at least until the Joining is over, I'd appreciate it."

"That's twice now," Palla said. "What is it with frogs and toads? Couldn't mages turn us into different animals? Or are they bound by some strange code to only use amphibians? I wouldn't mind being a horse."

"If you turned into a horse, mi'lady, I reserve the first rights to ride you into battle," Daveth said with a wink.

Palla chuckled and put her hands on her hips, obviously unfazed; Alistair, on the other hand, fell on the other side of the spectrum in the category of _extremely _fazed, with his face turning red and his eyes quickly averting to the ground.

Shesi coughed; her skin felt clammy again. Duncan had said she didn't have much time left, and she squirmed where she stood, itching to be on her way.

"Poor thing," Ellairia said, giving Shesi a concerned frown. "You look terrible. Are you ill?"

"She is heavily tainted," Duncan said; so much for subtlety. "She will become a ghoul if we delay much longer. The seven of you will need to head into the Korcari Wilds and gather six vials of darkspawn blood. As you can imagine, the darkspawn will not give up their blood easily. Furthermore, there was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could not afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can."

"Will do," Alistair said with a salute. He seemed to be happy to move past the Palla-riding subject.

"And take care of your charges," Duncan added. "Although I expect the seven of you will be able to complete these tasks in no time at all. Meet me back here when you've finished. We've much to do."


	5. The Fetch Quests

_And here we are! I thought I'd never get any writing done with Inquisition being out. (Does anyone else squeal inside when they hear the Warden or the Champion get mentioned? I do a lot of squealing with that game. Seriously.)_

_It's good to spend some time with these guys, though._

* * *

**The Fetch Quests**

Palla thought their new ragtag group might never actually reach the Korcari Wilds.

As they were leaving Duncan's fire, Ser Jory announced rather awkwardly that he had to relieve himself. That was all well and good, except one didn't just piss through all those layers of armor unless one wanted nasty consequences. So he'd need at least a few minutes. While he did that, Daveth began feeling a little peckish and jogged off to find – steal, presumably – a bite to eat, leaving the group two recruits short now. Palla scuffed her well-worn leather boot against the ground and glanced at Alistair, who had what could only be described as an expression of mild patience.

She liked that about him. He didn't raise his voice in anger, didn't huff and stomp his feet when their group got delayed by silly circumstances; he just patiently waited for the two men to return. Whenever he glanced over at her and their eyes locked, he'd shoot her a pleasant smile that made her feel more than a little fuzzy. Alistair had a smile like a plush blanket and a bowl of hot soup: comfortable. Dependable. Pleasant. _Welcoming._

Palla then looked over at Shesi and frowned. The elf already looked ill, with the ashen blue of her veins popping out against her tanned skin, and the way her pupils flashed ghastly white rather than the typical black…but the Dalish woman said nothing about it, and didn't even waver where she stood.

"Anyone have any good stories to tell to pass the time?" Alistair asked.

If there was anything Palla _loved, _it was the sound of laughter, and she always had some embarrassing story to elicit it. "Shall I relive the time I accidentally had chicken shit in my hair when I went to a formal dinner?" she said.

Ellie giggled, Shesi snorted, Alistair chuckled, and Corvis gave her a smirk. "Please tell me you were young," the enchanter said.

"Nah," Palla said. "Two years ago."

Alistair laughed once more. "Just yesterday I was apparently speaking to Duncan with mabari slobber on my cheek. No one told me. But I'm glad I'm not the only one with humiliating stories."

Just as Daveth came jogging back with some dried beef in hand, Palla spotted a man and woman coming their way, both bickering about something she couldn't hear. Both had fair skin and hair black as ink, although where the man's eyes were mild blue, Palla could see the woman's were a shocking shade of azure.

The man nearly ran into Ellairia, who jumped out of the way; he only halted when the woman grabbed his arm and manually stopped him.

"Brother, dear, what did I say about squishing elves?" the woman said.

"Stuff it, sister," the brother said with a sour frown, crossing muscular arms over his chest.

"My apologies," the woman said, extending a hand to Palla, who shook it. "My name is River Hawke. This is my brother, Carver. You're Grey Wardens, aren't you? You have the look of it."

"You're a rogue, aren't you?" Shesi asked, looking up at River and looking a little less tired. Palla eyed the ferocious-looking daggers strapped to River's belt.

"And you are too, I see!" River said, her eyes brightening – as if the lyrium-bright shade could _get _any brighter. "I've barely seen any rogues around here."

"Forgetting someone, are we?" Daveth said, tearing at a piece of dried beef with his teeth.

"I purposely ignored _you," _River said, shooting him a dirty look, "seeing as you just propositioned me not half an hour ago about something awfully inappropriate for the eve of battle. Not that I wasn't flattered, good ser. No hard feelings, eh?" She turned back to Shesi. "I would just about die of happiness if you'd agree to duel me after the battle. A few days after, probably."

"I would be honored," Shesi said with a short bow.

"That's _if _we survive the battle, Riv," Carver said. For all his stony expressions and grumbling words, Palla saw raw worry underneath it.

"Oh, relax. We will." River swiftly tied her hair back in a high knot and flashed them all a smile. "We really should return to the camp down in the valley. Just came up to grab a few last minute supplies. Best of luck to you all on the battlefield. Let's show those darkspawn what it feels like to have righteous fury shoved up their arses."

"That's a rather awkward place to put your righteous fury," Corvis said. "Am I the only one here who'd rather avoid going anywhere near darkspawn arses?"

"And you as well," Palla said, ignoring Corvis.

"Maker watch over you," Alistair said.

River and Carver walked away then, presumably headed back down to the valley; Daveth looked down at Shesi and handed her a strip of dried beef. "You look like you could use this," he said.

"My thanks, _shemlen," _Shesi said, chewing on it.

Ser Jory returned to the group then, looking much more refreshed, and Palla took the front, leading them all towards the gate. She didn't know what dangers the Wilds would bring – Duncan had hinted at there being many dangers out there – but she was happy to face them all. No matter what, _anything _was better than thinking about Fergus and her parents and Arl Howe and the cushioned life she'd left behind in Highever.

* * *

"Corvis, you rat bastard," Palla hissed, resisting the urge to drive her longsword into the loam beneath her feet. "Stop taking all of our kills!"

The handsome enchanter laughed in her direction, fire crackling around his hands. "What's that I hear? Is that the sound of you not appreciating my efforts?"

"That's one way to put it!" Palla retorted.

The seven of them stood in a narrow spit of land between two stagnant, boggy streams, surrounded by an equal amount of charred darkspawn corpses and the remains of an unfortunately placed deathroot plant. Little pillars of smoke twined up from the corpses where patches of flame still clung to life. Palla pulled her boot away from where it had sunk into the peat beneath her; it made a nasty squelching sound as it yanked free.

"There's nothing wrong with a mage destroying everything in our path and letting us kick back and enjoy the show," Alistair said cheerfully. "As long as any frog spells point firmly _forward."_

"I second that," Daveth said.

"If I'm going to turn anyone into a frog, it'll most definitely be you," Corvis told Alistair, still chuckling. "Care to lead, Miss Cousland?"

"I would," Palla said, all but marching to the front.

They needed to actually _practice _killing darkspawn to prepare for the battle where they would inevitably be overwhelmed by them. Palla knew at least she and Alistair had encountered them before, and that hearing about them didn't actually prepare you for their monstrous appearance and stinging blood. Shesi looked worse now that they'd encountered darkspawn, and Palla could hear her ragged breathing as she fell in step and followed.

Corvis, as promised, hung back during the next fight so all of them could gain experience. The rest of them seemed to adapt quickly. Ser Jory had a lot of power behind that sword arm of his, Palla noticed, and Shesi and Daveth were blurry whirlwinds with their twin blades. Ellairia stayed near Corvis, her healing spells shooting around the marshes, and Corvis fired the occasional ice spell when the need arose.

Palla felt a little guilty snapping at him; the last thing she wanted to do was anger an enchanter with that much raw force behind his magic, but Corvis seemed agreeable enough, and it didn't look like her words had bothered him. More like they'd boosted his ego by proving he was too powerful for the approaching darkspawn.

One of Corvis's ice spells clipped Alistair in the knee just as he was yanking a blade out of a genlock's gut, and Alistair stumbled, shooting Corvis a glare.

"Mages," he said as Palla leapt over and stabbed a nearby hurlock through the middle.

"At least it wasn't one of them toad spells," Palla said, dodging out of the way when Alistair's blade chopped a genlock almost in half. "Then one of your legs would be a frog's leg. That would be unfortunate. Unless you jumped around on one leg. I'll bet you could go far."

"Let's be thankful for small things," Alistair said.

When the last genlock fell to Shesi's blade, Palla saw the elf freeze where she stood, staring off into the swampy woods to their right. They'd already collected three vials of blood from the corpses, and she saw Ellie and Corvis working on the last two, draining sticky darkspawn blood into the glass.

"Something over there?" Palla called to Shesi.

"Hopefully not more darkspawn," Jory said. "How are we supposed to fight more of these things? There's hundreds! This quest is a death sentence."

"Not darkspawn," Shesi answered. She crossed over to Palla, her feet barely making a noise on the moist ground. "Something's tracking us. I can feel it. I don't know if it wants to attack, but either way, we're being followed."

Palla glanced in the direction Shesi had been watching, and she just barely saw what looked like a pair of keen yellow eyes – wolf's eyes – followed by a flash of smoky grey disappearing amongst the trees. Or had that been her imagination? She couldn't fathom a lone wolf trying to take them down after watching them eradicate dozens of darkspawn.

"Let's hurry," Alistair suggested. He pointed to a ruin of crumbling whitish stones, choked all over with moss and climbing ivy. "There's where the treaties should be hidden, I believe."

As they walked and the stone ruins grew ever closer, Palla kept checking over her shoulder to make sure no one had spontaneously broken a foot or fallen in a chasm or something. No casualties yet, thankfully. She heard Shesi ask Daveth about his exploits in Denerim, to which Daveth explained he'd attempted to pickpocket Duncan and had been chased down embarrassingly quickly; an amusing image, that. Ellairia and Corvis struck up a conversation involving some shared memory of the Circle that had something to do with a fellow mage tricking the Templars into thinking the tower had hidden passages within the walls. Ser Jory listened to both conversations, occasionally slipping in a comment about the chill.

"You know," Alistair said to Palla, interrupting her eavesdropping, "I understand if you don't want to speak of it, but… I heard what happened to your family. In Highever. I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," Palla said, gathering her long red hair over one shoulder and tugging on it. "I… Maybe it's best to forget." But not forget to drive a spear through Howe's face, of course.

"If you need anything," Alistair said, "someone to talk to, a cheesy joke, a hug – I'm here. Thought I'd offer."

"Oh, I fully intend to cash in on that hug at some point," Palla said.

Maker, Alistair's cheeks actually flushed at that.

"Darkspawn ahead," Shesi announced, coughing raggedly a second later. "Is that a – _shite."_

"A shite?" Corvis said. "Let's avoid that."

Palla squinted, looking ahead of her and wondering what had made Shesi curse, when she saw what looked like an expanding ball of light. No, not light, not quite; obviously an incoming fireball.

Shite, indeed.

"Out of the way!" she yelled. She had no time to think before Alistair dragged her to where he stood behind his shield, and the inferno exploded _around _them, licking at Palla's skin as she ducked her head to avoid it. Its roaring filled her ears. When the fire fizzled out of the air a moment later, Alistair kept his shield up, looking back at Palla to probably make sure she hadn't burnt to a crisp.

"Damn good thing you were a Templar," she said, searching for her companions. She saw Daveth and Jory emerging from behind a mangrove, unscathed; good.

"That was invigorating," Corvis said, dropping his hand from where it had been shielding his eyes. Ellairia peeked her head out from behind him, not even surprised that Corvis hadn't gone up in smoke.

Maker's breath. How long had that man spent building up an immunity to fire?

"Where's Shesi?" Palla shouted, breaking away from Alistair.

"Get back! Another one!" Alistair warned, grabbing her as another blast of fire seared the air.

So it seemed the darkspawn ahead of them had a mage with them. This would complicate things immensely. Palla looked frantically around for Shesi when the air cleared, finally spotting what she hoped she wouldn't see – a small form lying several yards away with singed, blackened armor, trying desperately to swat off little plumes of fire on her skin.

"Too…slow…_shite,_" Shesi coughed, struggling to her knees. The darkspawn infection must've really done a number on the elf, if a trained rogue like her hadn't been able to leap out of the way.

They had to act quickly, or another fireball would burn them all alive. "Split up!" Palla yelled, pointing her finger wildly in her companions' directions. "Daveth, swing far right and try to sneak around! Jory, get Shesi to cover! Ellie, heal – "

"I've got it!" the elven mage said, running after Jory as the knight scooped up Shesi.

"Corvis!" Palla shouted, gripping a strap at the back of Alistair's armor so she wouldn't stray too far away from his shield. "I'm taking back what I said! Hit that mage with everything you've got!"

"Music to my ears," Corvis said with a grin, spinning his staff over his head and slamming the butt of it down on the ground; Palla craned her head around Alistair to watch as fire erupted from the ground under the darkspawn on the hill above them; the one who'd been hitting them with fireballs flew upwards in such a comical fashion that Palla tried not to laugh.

"Let's press forward while he's on the ground," Palla urged Alistair.

"Got it," Alistair said, lowering his shield.

Not wanting to lose their advantage, Palla charged forward, reaching the first darkspawn – unfortunately not the mage – as Daveth emerged from the treeline and plunged a dagger into a genlock's throat. She heard Alistair's shield slam into another, and she whirled around, searching for the mage. If they could take him down, they could regroup, which seemed vital at the moment. She didn't even know where Jory, Shesi, and Ellie were at this point.

A few yards from her, she spotted the hurlock mage rising to his feet, staff in hand.

"Go down already!" she shouted, rushing for it.

She didn't reach it in time; it raised its staff and aimed, and just as she thought her last sight would be the ugly face of a darkspawn, she saw a small shadow leap forward from behind it. Shesi latched onto its back like a barnacle and drove both daggers through its neck. Its staff clattered to the ground and it collapsed in a heap; Shesi just managed to jump clear.

"Still got it," the elf said with a slight smile, suppressing a cough with her hands.

Ellie must have healed her in time. Thank the Maker. Not wanting to waste their sudden advantage, Palla swung around and launched herself at the last gunlock as Alistair's shield forced it backwards; she heaved her sword in an arc and cleaved its head off, watching the head roll sporadically down the hill.

"Corvis," Palla said, "if I ever snap at you for your magic again, punch me. I don't know what we'd have done without you."

"I won't forget you said that," Corvis said.

"I think that's the last of them," Alistair said, smiling in relief as he sheathed his sword. "This should be where those documents are. Let's find them and get out of here."

Ellie looked down at the decapitated darkspawn from behind Jory's back, looking nauseated. "Let's _hope_ that was the last of them," she said, raising her staff and sending a surge of healing through all of them. Daveth offered Shesi his arm to lean on, and she looked like she was about to snap at him for such a gesture, then her expression turned weary and she took his arm gratefully.

Palla jogged forward into the ruins, spotting an old, broken-down chest buried in the rubble. Alistair helped her clear the chunks of stone away from it. She lifted the creaking lid, waved dust away from her face, and peeked inside.

No way.

"They're gone!" Alistair said. "Maker's breath, what – " He cut himself off, looking up.

"Well, well, well," a woman's voice said. "What have we here?"


	6. Grey Your Warden

_Good grief, I have been neglecting this poor story. Blame Tale of Two Lavellans for that. Although I should thank Mooncloudpanther for getting me thinking about the Wardens again._

_Isabela's innuendos make for amusing titles. :)_

* * *

**Grey Your Warden**

Reasonably speaking, Corvis couldn't _not _notice this woman.

She had a sort of feral beauty to her, a wildness that spoke of a life outside of the Chantry stain. Her hair was as black as a starless sky, black as Corvis's own, except hers was long and pulled back into a twisting bun. The plunging neckline of her ragged robes bared the pale, silken skin of her collarbone and chest, just visible beneath a heavy necklace laden with crude-cut jewels. But it was her eyes he noticed the most—sharp, lupine, as gold as fine jewelry.

_Antivan gold, _his merchant father might have said proudly. Corvis had always snorted at that simple two-word, culturally proud phrase, even when he'd been young and still living with his parents; Antivan jewelry was just as likely to be gilt as it was crimson with some poor, slain bastard's blood.

"Grey Wardens, I presume?" the woman said, her voice as darkly smooth as poisoned wine. Maybe a _chianti… _Corvis could go for that. "Such diversity these days. Look at you two, trembling behind your shields; ah, but _you_ are Dalish, are you not?" The woman turned her keen gaze to Shesi, who looked nearly ready to collapse if it weren't for Palla's hand on her shoulder. "The Dalish do not frighten like little boys."

"There's no need to," Shesi said mildly, her voice wavering with fatigue. "We don't shy away from death."

Nor did they fear wild mages, it seemed; naturally. Corvis knew some about the fabled Dalish elves from his research in Kinloch Hold, enough to know they didn't shy away from magic when it was necessary.

"And yet you assume it is coming all the same, from every angle and shadowed corner." The woman smiled wryly. "Wise, I suppose, for a survivalist." She turned her gaze to Ellairia, who looked very small at Corvis's side. "And you—with your big brown eyes as wide as dinner platters. Are you frightened, or curious?"

"Don't answer that," Alistair cautioned Ellairia before she _could. _She glanced back at him with a look that clearly said _well-I-don't-want-to-be-rude, _but he kept going."She looks Chasind, and that means more could be nearby. Be careful."

Palla was strangely silent through all this, for as boisterous as the woman had been just previously. Corvis got the sense she was irrationally worried for Shesi's health, the way she kept gripping the tiny elf's shoulders. Bit of a mother hen complex, that. Shesi looked mildly uncomfortable with the constant touching, but she didn't shove Palla off regardless.

The wildwoman _tsked _her tongue in response. "The _noble _warrior fears barbarians will swoop down upon him?"

"I think Alistair is more concerned you might turn him into a newt," Shesi said tiredly, then coughed into her fist.

"Or stick us in a witch's brew," Daveth put in.

Alistair shrugged, as if both of those were reasonable suggestions.

"With all the incessant bitching you've been doing about the cold, Daveth, I'd think you would _relish _the heat of a cooking pot," Corvis said amusedly.

The woman turned her eyes to Corvis, unabashedly looking him up and down and looking pleased by what she saw. Corvis quirked a half smile, not bothered in the slightest by it.

"You there," she said. "Handsome lad. Let's be civil—tell me your name, and I shall tell you mine."

"I wouldn't—" Ser Jory began.

Corvis did a half bow, adding an extra flourish of his hand for dramatic effect. "Enchanter Corvis Nalida, previously of Kinloch Hold, at your service. I am most pleased to meet your acquaintance."

"A most civil greeting," the woman said, her voice rising in pitch from what sounded like surprise—she must have expected Corvis to make some flippant comment about her wild newt-magic and not greet her the way he did. With a bit of a smirk twitching at the corner of her mouth, she replied in kind, "you may call me Morrigan."

"Well, Morrigan," Palla said, finally speaking up, "we've been sent out here to recover old treaties from that chest over there, which for some _baffling_ reason is empty. You wouldn't have any idea what fate _befell_ those treaties, would you?"

Morrigan raised her chin. "I might."

"I won't presume to come waltzing onto your lands and take what's yours," Palla continued, her blue-green eyes holding Morrigan's with the sort of steadiness that could only come from years and years of practice dealing with persnickety nobles, property disputes, and the like. Palla hadn't struck Corvis as the steady type upon first meeting her—more so as the bossy, boisterous type—but she seemed to know when to _turn-the-quirk-off, _as it were; impressive. "Regardless, those treaties should rightfully be Grey Warden property, and no one else would have any sort of use for them. If you know where they've gone to, we'd really appreciate the knowledge."

"Forgive me for my boldness," Ser Jory said, "but don't these wilds belong to _no one?"_

"No one except the Witches of the Wilds," Daveth said, looking at Morrigan with a new, higher level of suspicion.

Morrigan chuckled lowly. "Ah, but I know these wilds only as one who owned them could, ser knight. Could anyone else say the same?" She returned her focus to Palla. "I do know who took those treaties, in fact—t'was my mother."

"Would you please take us to her?" Ellairia asked politely from Corvis's side.

"A reasonable request." Morrigan nodded once. "Come, then; I will show you to my mother." She aimed a pointed look in Alistair's, Daveth's, and Jory's direction. "Unless you find yourselves much too frightened to be in the midst of another _wild apostate."_

"Not frightened. Nope." Alistair looked like he was trying to bolster his own courage; Palla shot him an encouraging smile. "Let's go, then."

* * *

Shesi mulled over what Flemeth had told them as they approached Ostagar's gates.

At the very least, they now had the treaties in hand, and six vials of dark, oozing, stinking darkspawn blood, which was all they'd come out to accomplish. The smell of it had made the Blight sickness boil and come alive in her blood, and if it hadn't been for Palla's hand on her shoulder almost constantly, she might've lost her senses and collapsed. Embarrassing, for a Dalish elf, but she couldn't exactly help it.

No—she had to stop thinking that. The Dalish part, at least. Shesi had been banished from Clan Sabrae on account of the fit she'd thrown over searching for Tamlen; when a Keeper told a hunter to never come back, she meant it. If Keeper Marethari had intended to give Shesi a home once the Warden business was over, she would have said as much.

She couldn't get over the sense that Tamlen might not have died. It ate at her, a constant gnawing on her insides. Why did Keeper Marethari presume to have rights over Shesi's own life, when Shesi should've been free to lose it in her search for Tamlen?

It made sense in her head.

She scrubbed at Ghilain'nain's grey _vallaslin _at her forehead, as if she could wipe it off and forget.

They'd also left Flemeth with a few cryptic warnings from the old woman, along with a nonsensical comment about finding manners in stockings, followed by an anecdote about fitting Shesi and Ellairia into said stockings. Ellie had laughed lightly about it, goodnaturedly, as though being crammed into an old woman's hosiery didn't bother her in the slightest.

Shesi walked near the back of the group, her daggers a constant light weight at her back, her steps growing heavier and heavier, more noisy than a hunter should have ever walked. And she watched her companions, stewing over the curious fact that she hadn't thought the word _shemlen _since Daveth had given her that piece of dried meat hours ago.

Well…thinking the word two seconds ago didn't exactly count.

Perhaps it was an aching desire to have a _clan _again that made her look at everyone's backs with a sort of familiarity, and an even scarier sort of longing.

Palla dropped back to speak with her, as they came near to the gate. It lurched ahead of them, a soldier drawing it open.

"Shess, you look awful," the warmaiden said.

Shesi frowned. "Are you sure? Here I am, thinking I've been at my most ravishing all day."

Palla snorted, the tightness around her eyes loosening a little. "Cute. I must've accidentally mistaken you for a sad-looking, Blight-sickened elf a moment ago. My mistake. No, _really, _though—I can carry you the last bit, if you'd like."

"No, thank you, I'm—" Shesi began.

Her legs betrayed her then, buckling beneath her like they were made of breadcrumbs rather than muscle and bone. Palla actually caught her by the underarms in time before she completely collapsed to the wet Korcari dirt.

Alistair turned around immediately, looking concerned. He stopped in his tracks and rushed over, and the whole group ground to a halt.

"I've got her," Alistair said, crooking one arm under Shesi's knees, the other around her back, and lifting her like a bride. The blood drained from Shesi's face. "There you are. Not so bad, is it?"

"I can walk," Shesi insisted.

"Clearly," Palla said with an eye roll. "Look at you, Alistair, being a knight in shining armor."

"That's me," Alistair said cheerfully, carrying Shesi to the front of the group; the bouncing of his walk didn't help her sudden nausea, but she wouldn't complain, not when he was being so gracious.

At the very least…they were almost through Ostagar's gates. Soon enough, they'd either be Grey Wardens or dead.

Shesi would take whatever came.

* * *

Ellairia shivered in the cold air, standing with the others where Duncan had instructed them to wait.

You'd have thought mage robes offered some small amount of warmth, but no—when it came down to it, they were no match for Fereldan nights. She glanced over at where Shesi sat crosslegged, the other elf's jaw visibly clenched tight.

"Can I try to heal you?" Ellie asked her.

Shesi shook her head, but didn't look unthankful. "No, it's all right—my Keeper already tried. There's nothing you can do."

Ellie brushed a feather of pale blonde hair away from her own forehead. "Do you miss your clan?"

A muscle twitched in Shesi's jaw, and it took her a moment to answer. "I…some of them, I suppose," she said; it was obvious she was mustering as much diplomacy as she could. "But the fact is, Keeper Marethari prevented me from searching for my clanmate, who _could still be alive out there, _then banished me from the clan entirely. '_Do not come back', _she said." She shook her head with a bitter look. "This Warden business will either be a new start or a quick death, and either would be a mercy."

"I'm sorry," Ellie said. "I shouldn't have asked."

"No. Don't be." Without moving her head, Shesi looked up and watched Duncan approach, stopping to speak with Corvis. "Go back to smiling—Creators know we all need some cheer around here."

Ellie would try.

She could barely see her companions in the dark, at least until Duncan asked Corvis to get the bonfire going where he'd stacked the logs in their secluded piece of courtyard, away from the rest of the soldiers. It lit with a tremendous roaring sound, vermilion flames licking up into the night sky. She watched her companions—Corvis, flame sparking from his fingers as always, casting a warm orange glow on his skin; fire-haired Palla, shifting back and forth on each hip; Daveth, watching Duncan with keen hazel eyes; Ser Jory, looking concerned; Shesi, her features constricted with pain. Duncan had said the fellow elf would succumb to the taint soon, if they didn't hurry with the rituals. In the light of day, Ellie had already seen bluish trails snaking along the woman's olive skin where her veins were, see the whitening of her pupils. It wouldn't be long.

Best they hurry. Shesi struggled to her feet, making barely any noise.

Alistair stood at Duncan's side, studying each recruit in turn. Then he bowed his head and recited words that Ellie hadn't heard before, words that still gripped like a vise around her heart. _Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows as we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten—and that one day, we shall join you._

There was a heavy silence afterwards, as Duncan lifted a large chalice from the table behind him.

"Palla of Highever, Lady of House Cousland." Duncan announced Palla's full, rather lengthy title, handing her the chalice; from the way Shesi's nose wrinkled, whatever dark substance sloshed around in it wasn't pleasant. Ellie couldn't smell it, but Shesi must've been able to. "You have been called upon to submit yourself to the taint. From this moment forward, you are a Grey Warden."

"Bottom's up?" Palla said, lifting the goblet to her lips and chugging. Ellie watched her with rapt fascination.

"Either the stuff in there is damned good, or you're strangely used to drinking foul liquids," Corvis commented.

"I would say the first isn't even an option," Alistair said, watching Palla.

The warmaiden swallowed, then lowered the goblet. "Second one," she said, then fell silent for a moment. Then her eyes glossed over completely white and she groaned, keeling over backwards. Alistair jumped forward and caught her, lowering her slowly so her head didn't crack against the ground.

"Alistair," Duncan chided gently. "Do not interfere."

"I… Yes, Duncan." With one last look at Palla's stark white face, at her hair spilled in a vermilion halo around her head, Alistair stood, backing away from her.

"She will live," Duncan said; Ellie wondered if he did so to reassure the ex-Templar. "Her body has accepted the taint." He picked up another goblet and handed it to Shesi. "We will know now whether or not you will be cured, child."

"Either way, the waiting is over," Shesi said, drinking. Her reaction was much the same as Palla's; she groaned, swooned, and fell over backwards. Duncan looked relieved.

"Two survivors," Alistair said jovially. "We're doing well, Duncan."

Duncan didn't say anything; surely he'd seen his fill of Joinings, seen his fill of deaths. Ellie shivered, nervous about her own fate. Wasn't it true that at least someone died during these rituals? Duncan had spoken of the risks. Palla and Shesi were already on the path to recovery, and Ellie selfishly wondered if, somehow, that meant _she _would be the one to die.

Inappropriate or not, she reached for Corvis's hand. Sparks singed her skin and she flinched away. Frowning, Corvis studied his own hand, and the sparks died away; that done, he took Ellie's tiny hand in his own and gave it a squeeze.

"You're strong, _amica mia,_" he whispered as Duncan handed the goblet to Daveth. "You'll live."

"And what if I don't?" she said, watching Daveth drink. "Will you…take care of Wynne on the battlefield? Watch her back? For me? I know she's here in Ostagar."

"No," he said sharply. "You'll live, and you'll do it yourself."

That comforted her, at least a little, especially since he didn't let go of her hand.

She expected Daveth to faint as Palla and Shesi had done, but instead he fell to his knees, making a horrendous choking noise. He gasped for breath, clawing at his own throat, his eyes wide with strain. Ellie tried to pull her hand out of Corvis's, to begin a healing spell, but he didn't let go.

Whatever was happening to Daveth…from what she saw, it couldn't be stopped. He coughed and gagged, a gut-wrenching sound, then sprawled facedown on the ground, dead.

Ellie felt a twinge of grief. Daveth had been a pleasant companion, witty and easy to talk to, always ready with his daggers. Foolish as it was, she had harbored a tiny hope that _all _of them might make it through the Joining.

"I am sorry, Daveth," Duncan said. And he really did look sorry. He picked up the fourth goblet. "Step forward, Jory of Redcliffe."

Jory, obviously horrified by Daveth's particularly painful death, took a step _backwards_ instead. "No," he said, unsheathing his sword. "You ask too much."

Duncan, calm and collected, unsheathed his own, giving it a quick twirl.

"_Sei pazzo! _Put your sword away," Corvis told Jory; the enchanter's eyes sparked topaz in the dark light. "What are you doing? It's too late for second thoughts."

"I…I have a wife, a child… There is no glory in this madness!" Jory cried, lashing out at Duncan.

Duncan, expert swordsman as he was, easily dodged the blow and replied with his own, blocking Jory's blade with a sharp clash of metal. He found his opening and stabbed; Jory's mouth gaped open as the sword slid through a chink in his armor and into his belly.

It took Ellie several seconds to realize she was screaming.

Corvis extracted his hand from hers and curled his arm around her shoulders instead, holding her tight as she covered her mouth with her hands to stifle her own screams. Jory's face contorted in agony and he slumped over, clutching at his abdomen…and died.

"You…you killed him," she gasped. When she glanced at Alistair, she saw he looked as horrified as she felt. "How could…n-no…"

"He knew the risks," Duncan said, sheathing his sword. "We must keep the Joining secret, at all costs." He picked up the fifth goblet and approached Ellie. "Step forward, Ellairia Surana of Kinloch Hold."

"I…I…"

"Be strong, _bambina_," Corvis said, giving her shoulders one last squeeze.

Child. She recognized the Antivan word. He'd called her a child, disguised the word with his lovely Antivan accent. And that alone was enough to make her swallow hard, step forward, and take the goblet from Duncan, downing whatever was in it.

It tasted like death and decay, metallic like blood, dirty like sludge. Ellie only had one moment to regret she didn't know Corvis's fate before she blacked out and fell.


	7. All the King's Men

_Trying not to ignore this one in favor of ToTL..._

* * *

**All the King's Men**

Shesi rolled her shoulders about to loosen up the minimalistic leather pauldrons of her new armor, waiting patiently for the blacksmith to finish fitting Ellairia for _her _new armor. It was tricky business, they'd found out—Ellie had never worn anything other than long mage robes before, from what she'd said, and she wasn't accustomed to greaves and bracers and pauldrons, even though they were all light and leather just like Shesi's own. The elven mage had put on a face of forced enthusiasm as the blacksmith jerked the leather pieces around, fastening buckles, making sure everything was secure over her under-armor. Still, Shesi could tell she was vastly uncomfortable in what she was wearing, even though she kept smiling and thanking the blacksmith every time he tugged on it.

With the coming battle only hours away, they had to make sure every Warden was outfitted in good enough gear to survive a darkspawn onslaught, even the healers like Ellie.

_Warden. _It felt weird to think it, made something odd tingle on Shesi's tongue, but here she was, cured of her Blight-sickness, ready and willing to get out there on the battlefield and tear into some darkspawn with her daggers.

Not all of them had survived the Joining. Shesi had woken up to the news that Daveth and Ser Jory hadn't made it through, although the details had been omitted from Ellie's spoken report. It had brought her grieving over Tamlen bubbling right back up to the surface, and she'd set her jaw, unwilling to show those emotions, even to the people she almost considered her newfound clan.

"Do you think that meeting will go on much longer?" Ellie asked, her chocolate brown eyes curious and fixed on Shesi's face.

"Hard to say," Shesi said, glancing in the general direction where Palla and Corvis had followed Duncan, after being asked to attend the meeting with King Cailin and Teyrn Loghain to finalize battle strategies. "Palla and Corvis must've recovered early, if they were asked to attend the meeting—I wasn't even conscious when they left."

"They're strong," Ellie said. "I woke up just before Alistair left…he said Corvis's eyes went completely white after he drank the stuff, and he nearly set all of us on fire from where he was standing."

"That sounds like him." Corvis was a bit of a fire-devil, and even _Shesi, _a non-mage, could feel the raw mana seeping off him whenever he was close by. She didn't understand the rules of the Circle and all, but she gathered that 'Enchanter' was a higher-ranking title than Ellie's own 'Mage' prefix.

The blacksmith gave one of Ellie's greaves one last tug, then glanced up at Shesi with a frown. "You're _certain _you won't wear boots, mi'lady?" he asked her.

Shesi shook her head. "Certain."

Dalish didn't wear _boots; _the most they usually donned were greaves with a leather strap around the arch of the foot. Shesi didn't know how she'd grip the terrain beneath her without her toes free…it seemed awfully confining, to wear such clunky things on one's feet.

The blacksmith shrugged and left them there.

Shesi touched her fingertips to the _dar'misu _at her belt, the left one, and sucked in a deep breath. After spending so many days tainted and Blight-sick, it felt absolutely _heavenly _to breathe cleanly again, to feel her lungs surging strong beneath her ribs.

"Do you know what the odds are?" Ellie asked Shesi, after a moment of silent thought. "For the battle?"

"It's hard to say," Shesi said. She did a bit of thinking herself; she was used to calculating hunting odds, how easy it would be to take down an animal given the size of the hunting party, but she'd try to decipher the battle odds for Ellie, since Ellie looked like she was nearly quivering in her boots. "We don't know how many darkspawn are out there, but from what Duncan was saying, it should be a _lot _of them. Very likely they've got more mages than just that one we encountered out in the Wilds, and they'll probably have warriors and rogues of sorts, so both forces should be well-matched."

"King Cailin seems to think we'll be just fine," Ellie said, looking a little less worried as she said so.

_He has to, _Shesi was about to say. _If he doesn't have boundless optimism, his own soldiers might falter. _It wasn't how a Dalish hunter led a hunting party—her clan had always emphasized caution and consideration above all else—but Shesi knew well enough how valuable a leader rallying his troops could be.

Even so…Shesi didn't think their odds would be as good as King Cailin assumed.

Still, saying this to Ellie wouldn't be very tactful. The young mage was already wide-eyed, her eyes darting about like those of a trapped deer.

"His soldiers know what they're doing," she said instead.

She heard Palla and Corvis approaching even before she glanced in their direction—the clinking of Palla's heavy metal armor and the new shield strapped to her back was noise enough for Shesi to pinpoint her exact position, even if her eyes were closed. Corvis was a little harder to detect, what with his lighter armor and lack of metallic weapons, but she could spot him if she concentrated.

It was vastly easier to just _look_, though. She did; the first thing she noticed was that Palla's expression was twisted into one of the most impressive glowers Shesi had ever seen.

"I don't understand what he's doing, keeping me and Alistair off the battlefield." Palla came to a halt a yard or so from Ellie, twisting her long, fiery hair into a neat bun at the back of her head. "Why send two trained warriors up the Tower to just light a signal fire? We could be doing more damage out there."

"What's done is done, yes?" Corvis said, his expression mild as he glanced from Ellie to Shesi, then back to Palla, seemingly not noticing the pink-cheeked smile Ellie sent his way. "Perhaps this signal-lighting is more crucial than you think?"

"Should've sent _you," _Palla said, gesturing to Corvis's hands, which sparked with barely-contained flame even now. "All you'd have to do is point a hand at the signal fire—_whoosh. Kaboom. _Ignition. Alistair and I have to troll around for a torch."

Corvis smirked. "Such hardship."

"That's not what I meant." Palla sighed, her shoulders drooping slightly. "It just makes my hands jittery, being told not to join the battle."

From the look on Ellie's face, Shesi could tell she wished _she'd _been asked to run up to the Tower of Ishal and light the signal fire. But the presence of a healer could save a lot of lives out there.

"What do you mean, you're not joining the battle?" came Alistair's voice, from behind Shesi.

She watched him join their group and make it five, a furrow forming between his brows.

"Neither are you, _fratello mio," _Corvis said, glancing over at Alistair. "The king gave his final orders and requested that you and Lady Smart-Mouth get to the top of the Tower of Ishal and light the fire that signals Loghain's soldiers to charge the battlefield. A monumental task, he says."

"I should be with Duncan." Alistair looked _deeply _troubled by Cailin's orders. "Maker's breath, I should be fighting at Duncan's side, with the other Wardens. Is he sending all _five _of us to the tower?"

"No." Palla shook her head. "Just us two. Ellie, Shesi, and Corvis are heading to the battlefield soon."

"Do you think he was protecting you two?" Ellie asked.

At exactly the same moment, Alistair said "I hope not" and Palla blurted out "Maker's panties, we don't need it." Then they looked long and hard at each other, as if mutually coming to terms with it.

"Let's go talk to Duncan," Alistair said. "At the very least…wish him good luck. And tell him we'll see him on the other side."

* * *

Only a few weeks ago, Ellie would've been tucked into a small corner table in Kinloch Hold's library, her nose buried in a book, reading several hours of her day away. Maybe she would've been sitting cross-legged on her bed and trying to coax normal conversation out of Jowan. Maybe she would've been receiving a lesson on how to properly heal the most internal of organs from Wynne—who Ellie was fairly certain was here in Ostagar, even though she hadn't found her yet.

She certainly wouldn't have been standing in the rain-soaked mud in the valley, surrounded by scores of humans who towered over her, sheets of rain plastering her blonde pixie-cut to her head and drenching her armor.

King Cailin had instructed for mages to be spread out evenly amongst the warriors and rogues, since the mages here numbered so few, and so Ellie had lost sight of Corvis some time ago. She stood up on the tips of her toes and craned her head around to see if she could spot him, but the soldiers standing around her were too tall.

She'd been given a standard-issue oak staff, and it was strapped to her back now, ready to be ripped off and wielded. Ellie wasn't familiar with staves; she'd always healed through her hands, always needed that direct contact with the wounded. But quick distance healing was necessary for battle, so Ellie tried to clear her mind, focus on the soothing spells she knew so well.

The sky was an iron grey above, grey as Palla's new armor, laden with rain-swollen clouds. Ellie had caught her last glimpse of Palla and Alistair before she'd headed down to the battlefield with Corvis and Shesi. _Please don't let it be truly my last glimpse, _she prayed, hoping the Maker was listening. _Of any of them. Please…_

Try as she might, standing on her toes as she did, she still couldn't see in front of her, except in small glimpses through split-second gaps between bodies.

The talking around her was a constant, almost soothing hum in her ears. Ellie let herself listen, let it be a balm for her pounding heart. One warrior behind her was telling someone about a lovely red-haired wife he'd left behind in Denerim, and how he was planning on sneaking home as a surprise when they defeated the darkspawn here. Another, somewhere to her left, was talking about his mother's homemade pancakes, and the apple butter she always drizzled over them, and how much he was looking forward to tasting them again, once the battle was over. Others prayed, or recited the Chant of Light, or merely wished each other good fortune.

Ellie glanced up at the face of the well-armed warrior beside her; she was a weathered woman, likely middle-aged, with glimpses of faint youth in the hazel of her eyes.

Foolishly enough, Ellie almost expected a racial slur. Instead, the woman's eyes crinkled as she looked down to meet Ellie's gaze, and she said, "Maker be with you, friend," before looking back up at the battlefield.

"Maker guide your blade," Ellie said, her voice tight from the knot in her throat.

It took a while, but eventually whispers began racing through the crowds, reaching Ellie's ears—whispers of the darkspawn horde approaching them now.

"_Can you see them?" _

"_Look at them all." _

"_Foul beasts, I can smell them, too." _

"_Shite, I see an ogre."_

"_Maker's breath, they're everywhere." _

"_I can't see an end to them."_

Ellie almost jumped up, just to see above the heads of all the humans around her. But something made her stay firmly planted on her feet, her knees threatening to knock together. It was as if the sky above darkened with the approach of the darkspawn, the air became still and stuffy, a miasma of disease and terror settled over the valley.

There were no hands to grab now, no one to shield Ellie and tell her it would be okay. Even standing in a sea of bodies, she was on her own now. And she made herself come to terms with that, even as cold sweat beaded on the back of her neck.

_Maker, guide us._

"Archers!" The King's voice rang through the valley, clear and strong. A volley of flaming arrows shot from the front of the army, arcing high in the sky with a thunderous whistling and disappearing beyond Ellie's line of sight.

She wondered if they'd made Shesi pick up a bow, because she was Dalish, even though Shesi wasn't a reliable shot—she would say so herself. Shesi was probably with the bulk of the Wardens, right at the front of the army with the King himself.

_Maker, keep us safe._

Another volley of arrows shot into the wet sky and down again. Then a third. A fourth. Ellie could hear the anticipatory growling and snarling of mabari hounds. Metal and leather armor rattled and creaked all around her as people shifted on their feet, drew their weapons.

"Hounds!" the King cried. There was a pounding of paws on mud as the mabari tore away. The darkspawn must have been too close for the archers to make a good volley. Ellie swallowed hard.

She could smell the darkspawn now, the same rotting stench as the ones they'd come across in the Korcari Wilds. Ellie's blood curdled.

"For Ferelden!" came the battlecry, and every warrior and rogue roared with the King, lifting their weapons for the charge.

_Maker, be our shield…_


	8. Death's Door

_Getting back into the swing of things..._

_Many, many thanks to Lea the Red, ShadowDmn, Mooncloudpanther, Ioialoha, Kaeberlily, Axel the Moon, and Tanith's crazy twin for reviewing thus far. :)_

* * *

**Death's Door**

Palla was sweating by the time she and Alistair reached the tower's third floor.

She wiped a strand of red hair off her forehead, feeling said sweat drip down the nape of her neck. She should've anticipated that darkspawn would have already stormed Ostagar and flooded into the tower—with all of their forces on the field, the tower wasn't well-guarded. But she and Alistair had been cutting and hacking their way through genlocks and hurlocks and shitlocks—okay, not the last one—for what felt like ages already.

And this floor—and the previous two as well—were a complete mess. Anyone unlucky enough to have been in the tower when the darkspawn poured through had been reduced to sticky, rotting piles of scattered flesh; the darkspawn had even jammed some of the heads onto stakes as a sort of macabre welcome sign. Palla took as shallow breaths as she could, trying not to inhale the myriad of foul stenches swimming through the air here.

"I hope we aren't running late already," Alistair said, shifting his shield on his shoulder. "Loghain's forces need that beacon lit."

Palla blew out a sharp breath through her mouth, nodded in agreement, and set foot on the third floor. There were a good number of wooden chests scattered around this room, possibly brimming over with goods; she ignored them. Warriors didn't compulsively loot like rogues did. A detriment, maybe, but Palla was in a bit of a hurry, to say the least.

This arrangement was really doing a number on her mental state. With three of her Warden brethren on the battlefield, it was making it significantly hard to focus and stay calm. Palla knew she could rely on Corvis to survive—the crazy enchanter could just burn down the whole valley and walk away, really, never mind all the rain—but she found herself stressing over Shesi and Ellie.

Shesi had a good shot. The elf, now that she was cured from her Blight-sickness, was a nimble dual-wielder and could probably dodge most blows. Ellie, though… Palla chewed on her tongue. The healer had never been in such a large battle before, and her fear had been evident since she'd woken from the Joining ritual.

Palla had already been forced to run and leave her parents to meet the Maker. The idea of losing the three on the battlefield—even Corvis—was too horrifying to think about.

"There wasn't supposed to be any resistance here," Alistair said in a harried whisper as he followed Palla; she could hear the worry in his voice, echoing her own. "What are the darkspawn doing, splitting away from the horde?"

"Maybe they heard we had cheese," Palla said, trying to spice up the otherwise dreary, dour mood.

"_Cheese," _Alistair said. "I could go for a hunk of cheese right about now."

"Hot Orlesian brie?" Palla said, stopping at a corner and peering quickly around to check for darkspawn. That had been a favorite, back in Highever. But Palla forced thoughts of her family from her mind.

"Where have you been all my life?" Alistair teased.

"Stuffing said cheese down my throat," Palla said amicably, picking up a jog. She knew for a fact there'd be more darkspawn somewhere along this floor—they'd very likely congregated into a larger mass, to snuff out anyone who tried to clear the way through. They may have been relatively mindless by moral standards, but they weren't as stupid as Palla had hoped for.

Never mind. She had her shield, she had her sword, and she had her own stubbornness. These beasts would _not _take her down; at least, not until she'd lit the fire, rejoined the battle, and made sure her fellow Wardens would make it out alive.

The next room was empty, although the evidence scattered all over the floor made it seem like the vacancy was recent. There were more bodies strewn about, limbs unattached, the broken shaft of what could've been an axe lying still on the stone floor. It was dark in here, musty; Palla squinted to see. Lined up along the wall were heavy iron cages, their doors yawning open. Cages for mabari, likely. Where those dogs had gone, Palla didn't know, but she didn't see any canine bodies amongst the dead here.

That was a relief. Palla had a soft spot for mabari; her own had grown old and passed on only a couple years ago, and she'd been too distraught to ask for another.

Her course through the tower led through a wide hall with a number of shut doors to her left; Palla didn't bother opening them. No time. All this could be done once they'd lit the fire. They'd been delayed enough.

"Careful," Alistair said softly as Palla neared the door in front of her, the one presumably leading to the stairwell. "I can sense darkspawn ahead."

"How many?" she whispered, resting her gauntleted hand against the door. It would be useless for her to try and eavesdrop inside; she didn't have an elf's keen hearing.

"Six," Alistair whispered back after a moment of deliberation.

Palla's other question, of course, would've been _how many of those sorry bastards are archers? _But there'd be no way for Alistair to tell that.

Best to just charge in. Neither could gain a rogue's advantage on these darkspawn, and if they opened the door with a pleasant _how-do-you-do, _they'd be quickly and effortlessly dismembered.

Palla kicked the door open; it swung so violently that it slammed into the wall, and she immediately raised her shield.

Two arrows glanced off it, and she made a note of that: two archers. Much as Palla wanted to take down the four warriors raising their weapons and grunting and drooling, she didn't want to be caught unawares by an arrow.

Angry warrior that she was, she blew past the ones with swords, twisting narrowly past a swing, and shield-bashed the archer, who'd tried to take a step back and nock another arrow. She could hear Alistair's war cry echoing around the narrow room, hear the clanging of his sword. As long as he made some noise, she could reassure herself that he was all right without having to watch him every five seconds.

She drove her sword into the archer's gut, twisted it for good measure, and yanked it out, lifting her shield to deflect an arrow from the second archer. A tall, warty hurlock came at her and lifted its mace; Palla ducked away and swung, catching the thing in the side with a deep slice and toppling it. Stinking darkspawn blood spurted all over the floor.

By the looks of it, Alistair had just taken down the second archer when she lifted her head and glanced over. Only three darkspawn warriors left, all three genlocks; their short stature would make their blows a little tougher to shield, but Palla knew what she was doing.

Her father hadn't taught her swordplay for nothing. Bryce Cousland had always wanted his only daughter to be strong, dependable, capable of taking care of herself when the need arose.

At the thought of her father, Palla narrowed her eyes and fought with amplified fervor, and by the time the last three genlocks went down, she had to force herself to purge the thoughts from her mind again.

"You look remarkably angry," Alistair noted, shrugging his shield onto his back. His breathing was as heavy as hers. "I think your face is about to match your hair."

"They smell like a special concoction of rotting pork and bog slime," Palla joked, taking just a second to catch her breath. "It offends my ladylike senses."

"And mine," Alistair said, wiping his bloodied blade on his pant leg. "Well, I mean—"

"I got your meaning," Palla said with a bit of a wry grin, deciding she couldn't take any longer of a breather. She huffed and trudged up the stairs, picking up a jog even though her aching lungs were begging her to stop and sit for a while.

They were close. This should be the top floor, where the beacon was waiting to be lit, just behind this door.

"Hold a moment—" Alistair started, but Palla was already pushing the door open, picking up a run, the end in sight…

And then her eyes focused and she skidded to a stop, arms flailing to help her keep balance; her right hand nearly smacked Alistair in the gut, and he stopped at the last second, sucking in a quick breath.

This was no ordinary darkspawn ahead of them.

Palla had never seen anything quite so large, save for _manmade _things. But this was a living, breathing, monster of a creature, its hulking form hunched over a corpse, its hands tearing. Her eyes widened in a sort of sick disbelief as the creature looked up at her and Alistair with deep-set eyes, pounded to its feet, and _roared._

Bloodied spittle sprayed from its simian jaws, and Palla's legs locked into place.

"Ogre," Alistair hissed. "Maker's breath…"

_How in hell can we take this thing down ourselves?_

"Don't let yourself get hit," Palla said hurriedly, strafing to the side with careful, deliberate steps as the ogre stamped its foot repeatedly against the floor like a bull about to charge. "Don't rely on your shield—I don't think these things could take a blow without shattering…"

"You get to the pyre and light it!" Alistair said, ever the noble knight. "I'll distract it!"

Palla nodded grimly, edging a little more sideways, trying to skirt around the circular room so she could toss a torch in the signal fire. There was already a pile of lightly burning wood nearby, crackling and spitting—had someone left that for them, knowing they were lacking a mage? Or had someone tried to light that signal already?

She kept a watchful eye on the ogre, which roared in Alistair's direction again, spreading its heavily muscled arms. Then it lowered its meaty torso and surged; Palla's eyes widened in horror as it charged.

Alistair dodged, but he wasn't quick enough; the ogre's charge clipped his shield, swinging him against the wall. There was a horrible thud, and he fell in a clattering of steel.

"_Shite," _Palla cursed, stopping, the blood draining from her face. Chances were he'd survived the blow, but…

But ogres didn't take live prisoners.

"Hey!" She clanged her sword's pommel against her shield. "Get away from him! Shoo!"

The ogre lifted its head, its hands trailing just over where Alistair had fallen. He wasn't moving.

Palla made more noise with her sword and shield until the thing stood to its full height, thick saliva dribbling from its jaws. It made a lumbering step towards her, then another, its eyes beady and black and lifeless.

Her shield wouldn't do her any good. It had been clumsily fashioned for protection from darkspawn weapons, not powerful ogre arms. Palla chucked it away, and it crashed into a couple of wooden crates, breaking them into splinters.

_Get away from him. Get away—_

It scuffed its foot against the floor and charged a second time, but Palla was unencumbered by her shield and prepared for it; she leapt out of the way and rolled, getting to her feet with a labored breath. The ogre slammed heavily into the wall instead, nodding its head briefly like it had been stunned, and then turned to find her once more.

She scanned the room, thinking.

Dodging its charges until it tired would take forever, and that was time she didn't have. She _could _try to let it charge away, then focus on lighting the fire…but her attention was fixed on where Alistair had fallen. He must have hit his head against the wall pretty hard, to not be getting up. That, or…

_No. _She'd make damn well sure he'd live.

Another scan of the room brought a weapons rack on the opposite wall to her attention. She needed something with a longer reach than this sword. A longsword, maybe? Or…

The ogre was coming at her again, a hand swinging, and Palla jumped away just in time. This time she had to keep backtracking around the room, ducking the occasional blow, trying to steady her shaking legs.

Grunting, the ogre picked up a wooden box and heaved it at her.

She barely dodged it—a couple pieces of wood ricocheted off the floor and smacked against her armor, regardless. "Oh, you _dick," _she hissed, wiping spit off the corner of her mouth.

Where was that weapons rack? Palla oriented herself, locating it. Not far, now. The ogre threw another crate, she leapt out of the way, panting.

She didn't want to drop her sword until she could find something better, so she held onto it with an iron, white-knuckled grip, even as the ogre charged again and she ran to clear its path. On the way she nearly tripped over a human skull, and the dirty bones went clattering along the floor, kicked by her feet.

There was the weapons rack, only a couple yards away—Palla sprinted for it.

Hastily, she threw her sword down and grabbed onto one of the rack's sturdy iron bars, steadying herself.

The ogre roared. She looked up, and it was preparing for another charge.

Palla's searching hands found the long wooden shaft of what she'd been eyeing—a spear. She grasped it and yanked it off the weapons rack, looking over her shoulder at the ogre.

Then Alistair made a groaning noise and sat up, a hand going to the back of his head, and the ogre shifted its attention to him.

_No._

She wouldn't let all those lessons back home amount to nothing. She wouldn't disappoint her father's memory.

Palla heaved the spear forward with her dominant arm, hissing from exhaustion as she did so; it sailed true and sank itself deep in the ogre's ribcage. The creature wobbled on its treetrunk legs, swayed, and fell backwards with enough force to shake the tower.

She knew better than to think it was dead. Stooping, she grasped her sword and ran at the thing, skidding to a stop and plunging the blade into its gullet.

"Eat—shit—you—prick." Stab, stab, stab. It must've been at least five deep stabs before she finally withdrew the blade from the ogre a final time, stepping backwards, oozing blood dripping from sword's point as she leveled it towards the ground.

Her vision spun as the adrenaline high started to wear off. She turned, caught a breath, and jogged for Alistair.

He looked woozy, but obviously alive, thank the Maker. He blinked, looked up at her with slightly unfocused brown eyes, and said, "Did you really just…tell an ogre to…?"

"Eat shit?" Palla finished. _I do have a bit of a foul mouth, don't I? Mother would've been— _"I think he deserved it, don't you?"

"Need to…catch my breath," Alistair said. He pointed an unsteady hand. "Signal…"

Palla nodded, heading for the other side of the room and grabbing a torch off the mantle. She dipped its tarred head into the smoldering pile of logs, watching it catch a blaze, then tossed the whole thing into the pyre.

It lit with a _whoosh, _vermilion flames roaring high and strong. Palla might've stopped to appreciate it, had she not had more pressing things on her mind: getting Alistair to a medic down at camp, making sure said medic actually existed and wasn't just a body in a pile by now, getting onto the battlefield and locating the other Wardens…

"Let's go," she said, jogging back to Alistair and curling an arm around him, using all of her strength to help him stand. "We're getting you to a healer."

"Duncan…" Alistair said, coughing.

"I'll find him," she promised. "You—"

She barely heard the thudding of many feet up the stairs. But she shifted her head to look, anyway, and cried out when an arrow penetrated a joint in her armor and sank into the flesh just under her right shoulder.

Palla staggered, lungs heaving, eyes blurring. One darkspawn…no, two…three…four…five… Another arrow whistled through the air, catching her in the right thigh, and she'd ditched her shield in a pile of broken crates.

Was Alistair yelling? Was _she? _She couldn't tell. Her knees hit the floor.

Another arrow buried itself in her belly, and that was the last thing Palla really _knew._


	9. Down With the Ship

_Look at me, I actually got a chapter done. Sorry for the delay!_

_Was listening to "Braving the Seas" by Myrath, and thus went a little "overboard" (hehe) with the ocean metaphors. Anyway. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

**Down With the Ship**

Corvis was having a blast out on the battlefield.

Quite literally.

There was an almost carnal rawness to the blazing fire rushing through his blood, surging up through his hands, exploding onto the battlefield—and if there was anything Corvis _loved, _it was burning things. The heat sang within him, thrummed around him like the beating of a war drum, as he arced his staff around and sent a searing half-moon of vermilion flame into a small wave of approaching genlocks.

The creatures blew backwards, limbs askew, their dying grunts hitting Corvis's ears. He smirked, twisting, shooting a fireball into a hurlock that was just about to charge a woman with ginger hair; the thing blasted sideways with the impact with the unmistakable hiss of sizzling flesh.

The woman regarded Corvis with a sour _you-could've-killed-me-you-crazy-mage _look, but left it at that, charging off to swing her blade at a genlock with a bow.

A noise caught his attention, and he turned, seeing a hurlock surging towards him with a gnarled mace held high in the air—an obvious attempt to startle him. But Corvis was no skittish, sheltered spellcaster; he took a step back to brace himself and blocked the blow with the shaft of his staff.

"Is that your best, _cazzo?" _he taunted, backing up and readying a spell. The darkspawn regarded him with soulless dark eyes and a mouth gaped open in a sort of maniacal grin, saliva dribbling down its jaws. "Eh? I've been hit harder with a bouquet of tulips!"

True story—children of foreign merchants in Denerim got strange things thrown at them, sometimes. Then there were the chunks of pie, and the actual live pig… But that hardly mattered now, did it?

Just as the darkspawn swung at him again, Corvis pushed both of his hands forward and shot a fireball into its chest. There was a crackling and spitting noise as the fire sank its scorching claws into the creature's warty hide, and it fell backwards with a nasty, sustained gurgle.

Corvis allowed himself a deep breath, surveying the battlefield for just a second.

It wasn't looking good, to put it bluntly. Ostagar's forces were thinning rapidly, many of them cut down like animals and bleeding out on the soggy valley floor.

He slammed his staff down and sent some chain lightning ricocheting through a clump of darkspawn, watching it sear them alive and drop them like flies.

Every time he caught sight of a warrior fighting nearby, or a rogue, or occasionally another mage, they all had the exact same expression on their faces—bleak despair. He knew he was probably the only one out here actually enjoying himself to some degree, yet it didn't take a genius to see that the current battle morale was scraping rock bottom, as were the numbers.

And the darkspawn forces weren't thinning at nearly the same rate. They seemed to keep coming, swarming like mosquitoes, their perpetual stink choking the valley air.

He coughed once, then again, then shot another fireball.

Something caught his attention, a speck of searing orange in his peripheral vision, far above the battlefield. He squinted against the rain and looked up, almost expecting a darkspawn emissary's firebolt from above.

But it was the beacon. High at the top of the Tower of Ishal, a roaring display of vermilion firelight. Corvis briefly watched the fire bite into the air a little higher, and he half-smiled, realizing Palla and Alistair had at least reached the top of the tower.

A smattering of whoops and cheers rolled through the valley from the remaining people fighting there, those who had seen the beacon light. Corvis could even feel the morale rise, warriors' hearts thumping harder and stronger all around him.

Teyrn Loghain's massive army would be there in just a moment, sweeping through the valley and taking the darkspawn by surprise.

Any minute now.

He twisted, hearing a noise behind him, and promptly set a clump of hurlocks aflame, barely checking to see if the fire had actually felled them. His attention was on where he knew Loghain's army would come from.

_Any minute now._

"We're overwhelmed!" cried a rogue in leather armor, his cheeks ruddy from exertion. "Fall back!"

All around the battlefield, morale was plummeting as quickly as it had risen, sinking like a ship with a gouging wound in her hull. Corvis could hear those same two words, "fall back," echoing around the sodden valley walls, plaintive cries amongst the rhythmic peppering of rainfall.

"_Basta!" _he yelled, his own voice rough and scratchy (a tragedy, really, for an Antivan accent lose its silken flow). _Enough. _"We'll lose Ostagar if we turn tail!"

A couple of soldiers whipped their heads in his direction, briefly, conflicted and considering. Yet it was like the beacon Palla lit had signaled them to run with their tails between their legs rather than wait for Loghain's forces.

Which had most definitely never come, much to Corvis's growing disgust.

Just as he was about to cup his hands for another fireball, something _smashed _into his side; he lost his grip on his staff as his body whiplashed sideways, tumbling along the slick, rocky ground until he braced his arms down and forcibly halted himself.

_Maker, _what a _blow; _his head spinning dangerously, Corvis got to his knees and struggled to see without his vision bucking and swaying like a ship in a storm. Through squinted eyes he saw a hurlock warrior with a heavy iron shield approaching him, its grotesque face tweaked into a sadistic grin.

He cupped his hands close to his belly, every sense reeling. His mana pool didn't feel depleted just yet, but it was hard to concentrate on summoning a spell with all his bells rung like that. His arms visibly shook with the pull of raw magic, but nothing was coming.

The hurlock swung its rough-hewn sword.

Corvis jolted backwards and blocked the swing from slicing his head off with the side of his metal-reinforced bracer. A lightning bolt of adrenaline through his body got him to his feet without his equilibrium being able to compensate. He swayed briefly on his feet, instinct helping him dodge backwards and out of the way of another swing. Snapping his teeth together, he thrust his hand forward and hurled a searing ball of shock at the greasy, warty creature.

Its body absorbed the shock with a hissing and snapping noise, and the darkspawn writhed on its feet, taking one last step forward before it collapsed to the ground in a shower of sparks.

Well, _that_ had swiftly taken all the fun out of fighting.

That, and the fact that the bulk of their forces had still never come.

Corvis briefly curled his upper lip in loathing, red-hot odium coursing through his blood. Whatever motives Loghain had for withholding his forces, he'd effortlessly crippled the remainder of the soldiers here. Looking around through blurry eyes, through a film of evening rain, Corvis realized he was one of the only non-darkspawn left on the battlefield.

He could see a few metallic specks in the distance as people fled the valley left and right, just dots among the perpetual sea of black. But when his foot accidentally caught on a corpse's arm, he realized where most of the soldiers were—here, still, slain and forgotten bodies on the battlefield.

It was no use. And Corvis was no martyr.

They'd lose Ostagar. Much as Corvis praised his own magical ability, even _he _couldn't stand there in the state he was in and stem the tide of darkspawn. Hopefully the beasts would be satisfied with their conquest for a time…but Corvis remembered Duncan saying they'd sweep northwards if their advances weren't blocked here in Ostagar Valley.

Where _was _Duncan? Or King Cailin? Corvis picked up a jog, tiredly throwing flames at a couple darkspawn lurching his way. One didn't just abandon their higher-ups in the heat of survival.

Something caught his attention immediately—the steaming body of a giant ogre, looking almost like a mountain rather than a corpse, and a small form with light blonde hair crouching in the mud near it.

Ellie. Corvis recognized her immediately. How she'd survived up until this point, he didn't know, but he picked up his pace and ran to her.

She was huddled over a body, he realized, frantically pushing her hands into its chest, the golden glow of healing surging around her arms. Yet the body didn't move. Corvis noticed the dark skin and the beard and the Rivaini armor, and his spirits sank even further.

_Merda. _Without Duncan…and it didn't seem like there were any Wardens left here, aside from him. He couldn't spot Shesi out in the valley—not that she'd be easily spotted. Nor could he see the blazing red of Palla's hair. Either she was fighting somewhere he couldn't see…or she and Alistair hadn't made it out of the tower.

"He's wounded…badly…he was fighting that…ogre," Ellie was babbling, her eyes glassy, as she pushed her hands down and kept trying to heal Duncan's prone form. "I didn't reach him in time…"

"He's dead, _bambina," _Corvis said. He wouldn't mince words, not now.

"_No," _Ellie sobbed. "Just a little more, Corvis…I can—"

"_Testadura! _We're losing the battle!" he yelled, snapping her out of her shaky trance.

She finally looked away from Duncan, finally regarded the rushing tide of darkspawn that swept through the valley like a coastal tsunami, and her face turned stark white.

There wouldn't be any more heroics down here. Just rushing face-first into a gruesome demise. And Corvis wasn't too keen on ending up as yet another corpse in the mud.

He held out a hand to Ellie. "Let's go. There's no winning here. We'll find another way."

She looked up at him with terrified chocolate eyes, and gripped his hand tight.

* * *

Shesi played dead.

All battle sounds had ceased about ten minutes ago. The screams and groans and grunts and clashes of metal had given way to a sort of sickening silence, one that reeked of the foul stench of enemy victory.

She'd been cut down just as everyone had started to sprint from the valley like a herd of spooked halla. A deep gash in her left thigh leaked blood all over the mud beneath her, lancing pain through her leg, and she knew she should get off the ground and clean it. But if she got up too hastily, the darkspawn tromping all around her would finish the job.

Lying on her belly with her chin tucked down, she opened her eyes just a crack so she could see through the blurriness of her own eyelashes.

The creatures hadn't wasted any time. She could see their dirtied boots all over, see them start the task of hauling the bodies into heaping piles. A grim task, normally, but these bastards seemed to be enjoying it.

The air was so choked with the smell of death and decay that Shesi wanted to vomit. But she wouldn't.

She had no illusions of surprising the darkspawn horde by jumping to her feet and defeating them all in one glorious act of battle. That sort of thing was for children's tales. A hero might have tried, maybe, but Shesi was no hero.

A flash of gold caught her attention, and she ever-so-slightly shifted her head so she could see what it was.

Cailin's armor. No doubt. There was a clump of darkspawn crooning over the gilt breastplate, digging through the pile of bracers and gauntlets and greaves and buckles like it was a heap of golden treasure.

If they'd divested the King of his armor, then he was assuredly dead. Shesi cursed inwardly. Ferelden had suffered a great, undignified blow here at Ostagar. She wanted desperately to believe not all of the Wardens had died along with the King…but she couldn't muster up the optimism to do so.

Shit. She'd gained a new five-member clan, and they'd been ripped from her all in the course of a night. The sense of being horribly, awfully alone flooded through her, and she clenched her jaw, trying not to react to the new burst of pain.

Hands grabbed her ankle and started dragging her, and Shesi closed her eyes, trying to act as boneless as possible.

Pebbles scraped her through her ripped armor as the creature dragged her, but she wouldn't make a noise.

The darkspawn dragged her for about a minute, then scooped her up and roughly flung her. Shesi did her best to act like a corpse as she felt herself land on the apex of a mound of human bodies, letting her limbs lie askew and her head fall back. It was her saving grace that she'd landed on her back; if she'd been forced to fall headfirst on a dead body, she might've retched.

Boots clinked away, the noise diminishing, and Shesi risked opening her eyes to near slits.

Immediately she saw a flash of red near her, at the edge of the pile, and her throat nearly closed. _Palla. _But another glance showed her an older woman with wrinkles at the edges of her eyes, and Shesi could breathe again.

If the darkspawn threw a body on top of her, she'd never be able to escape without being fatally slowed down. She waited, watching their pattern, memorizing which darkspawn came to her pile and when.

Why they hadn't yet sensed she was still alive, she didn't know. Perhaps the victory-high had clogged their senses.

She waited just a minute more, until she had a wide berth around her, then rose and leapt off the pile in one smooth motion.

Her cut leg nearly buckled beneath her as she landed, but she wouldn't let it. One nearby genlock grunted the alarm, and several of them turned to her, letting out gargled war cries and raising their weapons high.

An arrow whipped past her, missing its mark by a mere foot, as she darted away and found her stride. Hot blood pulsed from her thigh with each step, but she ignored it.

She'd have to get clear of the valley, or they'd box her in and cut her down—for good, this time. Sucking in a ragged breath, she tore past a clump of warriors and settled into a sprint. Wind whipped through her tangled hair, whistling past her ears, drowning out the noises of darkspawn running after her. But no one could catch a Dalish elf; not even a wounded one.

There. The edge of the forest. Shesi darted right into the treeline and barreled through the oaks and sycamores, cleaner air filling her lungs. She knew she was heading southward now, so she'd have to bank sideways, once she was clear of the valley. Loam and dead leaves kicked up behind her, twigs snapping under her nearly bare feet. Her limp, barely noticeable before, grew more and more pronounced as she went.

She didn't stop running.


	10. Witch's Brew

_Thank you all so much for your comments and support. :)_

* * *

**Witch's Brew**

Palla's nightmares had taken on an entirely new form.

They used to be a morbid replaying of that one fatal night at her family's castle in Highever, a repeating reel of stone walls and licking flames and screams in the blackening, smoke-filled air. Now they _morphed, _adding a whole 'nother component of madness to them—darkspawn sweeping through the halls, ogres tearing the castle down stone by stone, Wardens being sucked into pits of black nothingness in the ground while she could only watch.

The couple times she did wake before this, feverish and sweating, she could barely even comprehend where she was, so she had no choice but to slip back into the dreams. _This _time, though…Palla distinctly felt a wet, cooling rag dabbing at her forehead, snapping her consciousness sharply into focus.

She opened her bleary eyes, everything foggy. Still, though, she could easily make out the image of a midnight-haired woman with a heavy golden necklace taking the rag away from her forehead.

Morrigan. For as savage as the woman appeared at first glance, she had surprisingly gentle hands. Palla let her eyes focus, then looked down at herself.

Somehow, this wasn't the first time she'd woken up in just her smallclothes with a blurry head and a relative stranger touching her.

Or the fifth.

She didn't speak for a moment, glancing around her. The wooden walls around her were a warm golden-brown, full of knots and grains, enclosing them in a rather cozy space with an orange fire crackling in the hearth. From the pervasive smells of deathroot and swamp mud, this cabin was in the Korcari Wilds—or so she assumed. For all she knew, that was just Morrigan's choice of perfumes.

"T'would be pointless to inform you that you have woken," Morrigan said, her lupine yellow eyes scanning Palla as the latter sat up and propped herself up on one arm. "You've made a swift recovery. Mother will be pleased."

Mother. Who was Morrigan's mother? Right, Flemeth—the older, gray-haired woman who'd kept talking about fitting Shesi and Ellairia in her stockings.

_Shit. _Palla suddenly remembered the other Wardens, and her innards leapt into her throat.

"There were others," she said, clutching at the scratchy bed linens with her free hand. "Other Wardens. Have you—"

"Tis the dim-witted one you speak of?" Morrigan said, crossing with nimble steps over to a set of shelves and plucked a vial full of pale green liquid off the highest one. "He is currently pacing a rut outside and working himself into a panic. A most _noisy_ panic."

Palla wouldn't have described him as such, but the description sounded like Alistair. The only other "he" was Corvis, who seemed pretty sharp and not prone to panicking. Unless of course it was Duncan or a male Warden Palla hadn't met before…but she had a sneaking suspicion the one outside was Alistair.

If he had the energy to panic and pace, then he was probably uninjured. She allowed herself the shortest of relieved sighs.

But… "There were more than that," she said.

Morrigan's eyes narrowed as she popped the cork off the vial. "Oh? Are you intending to check the pot of stew for their remains? Perhaps mother and I used them to craft a potion to turn you into a frog?"

Palla snorted. "You got that from Alistair, didn't you?"

"I might have." Morrigan smirked. "Regardless, Warden, we have used none of your former companions in the stew. Check for yourself, if you wish."

"_Former?" _Palla repeated.

Morrigan didn't answer for a second, instead handing Palla the vial. Assuming it was to drink, Palla held it to her lips and tipped it back. Minty—she'd tasted this before when she'd gotten a little too roughhoused in the training ring back home and her father had given her some elfroot juice to make her feel better.

"I say 'former' only because none are present," Morrigan said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Mother and I were not able to locate the others, though t'was not for lack of trying. Although the more pressing issue was removing you and your dullard companion from the tower."

Palla wanted to throttle herself. Only just before the battle, she'd sworn to herself that she wouldn't let any of her new Warden companions meet some terrible end during the fighting. Now Corvis, Shesi, and Ellie were missing at _best. _Not good. Not good at all.

She knocked back the last bits of elfroot juice. It was pulpy, like little filaments of roughly ground fibers had sunk to the bottom of the vial. "Do you know the outcome of the battle?"

"I do. Are you certain you wish to hear it?"

What an odd response. Palla set the empty glass vial on a nearby nightstand and sat up a little further, nodding.

Morrigan raised a thin eyebrow. "The bulk of your armies quit the field and the remainder of the soldiers were massacred in the valley. Whatever you hoped to accomplish by lighting the beacon was entirely for naught. The battle was lost to the darkspawn, as was Ostagar."

"…_shit," _Palla cursed, burying her face in her hands.

So Loghain had yanked away his troops at the last minute, rendering Palla and Alistair's entire fight through the tower useless. King Cailin had been too glory-driven to flee the battle, she was fairly certain; no doubt he'd died out there. Duncan wouldn't have run to save himself either.

Teyrn Loghain had to have _some _reason for doing this. _Something._

Palla scrubbed her face tiredly, then dropped her hands.

"Alistair will want to know you've woken, I'm certain," Morrigan said. She seemed vastly uncomfortable with Palla's horror-stricken silence, like she didn't know what to do with it—or didn't care. "In the meantime, I will fix something to eat."

Palla didn't think she could talk to Alistair without both of them breaking down into weepy messes at the moment. Knowing he was all right was enough of a relief for her, right now. But her hands were jittery with anger over the outcome of the battle, and she needed something to get out her pent-up nerves.

"Can I help you?" she asked. "I…need something to distract myself, for a minute."

"If you wish." Morrigan shrugged noncommittally and nodded her head towards a cast iron pot hanging over the low fire. "Stir, then."

Clothes, first. It wasn't as if Palla _wasn't_ accustomed to performing tasks half naked, though—but those were thoughts for another time. She rose slowly to her feet, experimentally pressing a hand to her belly where she knew an arrow had gone through. But all that was left was some residual soreness; she'd been healed well. Only a small, rosy pink scar remained over the smooth ivory of her skin.

_Why _Morrigan and Flemeth had taken her and Alistair in and healed them, Palla didn't know. But she wasn't about to waltz out of the hut without so much as a thank-you. She doubted Morrigan was the type to appreciate firm hugs or sappy praises, so she went for the menial-labor approach instead.

Someone had set out a brown roughspun tunic and grey breeches, so Palla pulled them on, easing them over her worn-out body. Her waist-length red hair was a mess all by itself, tangled and snarled nearly beyond repair, so Palla just wound it up into a messy bun at the nape of her neck and crossed over to the cooking fire.

She let herself sink into a sort of mindless rhythm as she grasped the heavy wooden spoon and stirred the contents of the pot. It appeared to be full of broth and half-cooked meat at the moment; she didn't really feel like asking what animal had donated the meat to the mix. Food was food.

Morrigan appeared soundlessly with a clump of garlic cupped in her fine-boned hands, dumping it into the pot, and Palla continued stirring.

She'd always enjoyed the cooking process back home, when she wasn't out in the sparring arena. It was a relaxing sort of thing, watching cooks dice vegetables, wash and peel fruits, rub spices and seasonings all over meats, slather butter and garlic over sliced bread. Once in a blue moon Palla had tried to help out, out of curiosity, but Nan had always chided her for "getting her pretty hands dirty" and sent her off.

"So you didn't see the others among the dead?" Palla asked as Morrigan held a sprig of basil over the pot and plucked off the leaves. "You remember Shesi, don't you? Olive skin. Brunette. _Tiny."_

"Neither my mother nor I saw her," Morrigan said, dropping another basil leaf in the broth.

The heat from the bubbling stew bathed Palla's face, neck, and arms in warmth, and she relished the feeling. "What about Ellairia? Blonde. Also elven. Would've been about Shesi's size."

"I saw no obvious glimpses of blonde hair," Morrigan said with a sort of placating flatness to her voice.

"And Corvis? He's—"

"Fear not, I remember _well_ what your Antivan companion looks like," Morrigan said, startling Palla. "But enough of the questioning. Had I seen them, I would have informed you thusly."

"You're right," Palla said, reminding herself to shut up. Morrigan had keen eyes and didn't miss much; even through the mayhem of battle, she probably could've spotted the other Wardens' bodies if she'd truly been looking like she'd said. "I'm being a rather annoying guest. My apologies."

_Always be a courteous guest, _her mother had taught her. _Always be a lady. And please refrain from wolfing down your food and kicking your feet up on the table. We Couslands are not ill-bred savages._

Morrigan lifted her brows, but didn't answer. Her silence was enough of an acceptance as she dropped some more herbs into the broth and Palla continued to stir.

"And thank you for healing me," Palla said, when the silence stretched on too long.

It took Morrigan a second or so to answer; she actually looked mildly confused. "T'was my mother who mended your wounds, not I. But…you are welcome."

"May I ask how in the world you two got me and Alistair from the tower?"

"Oh, Mother simply swooped down in dragon form and snatched you both in her talons." The witch peered down into the broth, giving a smallish noise of approval. "That, or she fended off the darkspawn singlehandedly and dragged you both through the camp. Whichever tale suits your fancy, Warden."

"Either is a lot of exertion for an old lady," Palla quipped, scraping the bottom of the pot with the spoon to make sure nothing had gotten stuck there.

Morrigan actually _chuckled. _"Never underestimate Mother's frail, haggard appearance. 'Tis one of her greatest weapons."

Palla was just considering that when the hut's front door burst open with a bang.

"And so begins the ruckus," Morrigan said in an irritated tone, passing a hand over her forehead.

It was Alistair, his brown eyes fixed on Palla; she had just a second to greet him with a relieved smile before he'd closed the distance between them and swept her up into a tight, desperate hug that lifted her off her feet.

She was barely able to keep a hold on the spoon, let alone hold it over the pot so none of the broth would drip onto the floor. But she wrapped her free arm tight around Alistair's neck, breathing in the scents of leather and steel and skin.

"Maker's breath, you're _alive," _Alistair breathed, setting her back on her feet. As his pulled his arms away, his hands skimmed her waist, lingering there for just a breath longer than Palla was expecting. "I was so worried."

"Don't you worry about me," Palla insisted. "I've had rougher tumbles in _bed."_

Alistair went a little red in the face, said "_have _you now?", and averted his eyes to the cooking pot with what looked like a nervous but intrigued smile.

Morrigan watched the exchange with what looked like disinterest, then crossed her arms and peered over at the door as it swung open.

In strode Flemeth, a completely unassuming-looking older woman with shoulder-cropped grey hair and a dirtied, roughspun dress; if Palla was stupid, she might've underestimated her. But that seemed to be precisely what Flemeth was aiming for—underestimation. A false sense of security.

Likely she and Morrigan wanted something in exchange for rescuing her and Alistair, and healing them to boot. Palla just wondered what that might be.

"The stew is ready, mother," Morrigan said in a deceptively bored voice.

"What are you waiting for, girl?" Flemeth chided. "These are our guests! Be a good hostess and serve them. We're trying to _recover _them, after all, not starve them to death."

Morrigan glared daggers, but obeyed, plucking a stack of wooden bowls off a shelf and setting them near the cooking pot. She ladled stew into each one, handing the first to Palla and the second—grudgingly, it seemed—to Alistair. She served her mother and then herself last, as any good hostess did; Flemeth must've drummed some manners into her, no matter how much the younger wildwoman resisted.

Alistair looked depressed as he ate, each spoonful punctuated by a melancholy sigh and wide, frightened eyes.

"I can't believe it," he finally said. "I just can't believe it. How could Loghain _do _this? Maker… Leaving King Cailin and…and _Duncan…" _ He choked up at the last name, falling silent.

The overwhelming urge to rush over and smooth his hair and press his head to her chest flooded through Palla, but she suppressed it; goodness knew her mothering hadn't done anyone any good recently.

"It's just us," he continued, voice breathy. "Can you believe that? All those Wardens at Ostagar, and we're the only ones left. Shesi's gone. Ellie's gone. Even _Corvis _is gone, and I'd been certain he'd destroy half of Ostagar with his pyromania alone. And without Duncan to lead us—where do we go? What do we do? I've never been any good at leading. Ever. I don't know what to do without Duncan. I—"

"_Surely _this incessant moaning is getting you nowhere," Morrigan said. "Unless your aim was to split my ears open."

Palla paid the comment no heed. "Let's think, Alistair. We've got a horde of darkspawn coming north, and we could be the only ones left to stop it. Is there _anyone _we can go to for an alliance?"

"Of course!" He suddenly perked up, looking like he'd nearly forgotten to swallow the last bite. "The treaties! Dwarves and elves are obligated to help us during a Blight. As are the mages, I believe. And Arl Eamon of Redcliffe—I _know _him. He'll help us. His soldiers hadn't yet reached Ostagar."

"It sounds to me that you might just get that army, boy," Flemeth said, crossing her bony arms over her chest.

Palla's attention was suddenly fixed on Flemeth, one thing on her mind. "I'm certain you didn't heal us on a whim," she said, scuffing her bare foot on the rough wooden floor of the hut. "And I wanted to tell you that we are exceedingly grateful for your saving our lives, and we will try our hardest to pay any price you ask of us."

"We will?" Alistair asked.

"Such a _lady," _Flemeth crooned. "Your dear mother would have been proud of you." She didn't seem to notice Palla's surprised intake of breath, or wistful look. "The world needs you, Grey Wardens. Even a little old lady hiding in the Korcari Wilds needs you. If I may ask anything of you, let it be that you _do not fail._"

"There's nothing else we _can _do, is there?" Alistair said, looking at Palla. "We can't let the Blight swallow Ferelden whole."

"We _will _do it," Palla said. For King Cailin. For Duncan. For Shesi, for Ellie, for Corvis. For her dear parents, lost to Howe's betrayal.

"Then there is but one more thing I can give you, Grey Wardens," Flemeth said. She turned to Morrigan, who regarded them all with suspicious eyes the color of pure Antivan gold. "Our guests are leaving shortly, dear. And you will be joining them."

Morrigan's exclamation of surprise and outrage was damn near a screech.

* * *

Shesi had one thought in her mind, one driving force behind every weary step she took: _survive._

It had been a solid day since her escape from Ostagar. Since then the deep slice in her thigh had swelled and reddened around the edges, burning and raw and bloody like someone had spilled acid all over it. If she was any judge, it had gotten infected, despite her best efforts to tear bits of fabric off her armor and stopper the wound.

Palla would have wanted her to go on, wouldn't she? Corvis would have, and Ellie and Alistair. Tamlen's spirit, wherever it wandered, was no doubt urging her forward.

Hoping for any of their survivals had worn her down to the point of rather pathetic despair, so she'd stopped. They were dead. Darkspawn were on her tail. She'd have to accept that and push on, keep going.

Right now she headed at a limping jog along a narrow deerpath through the wilderness, wincing every time a fern or deathroot bloom brushed her thigh. The sky above was a dreary sort of iron grey, dusky, barely tinged with the dark blue of coming midnight. Every plant cast odd shadows on the ground ahead, every willow and sycamore making odd creaking noises as their thin trunks shifted in the dark dirt.

She trusted her own eyesight. It had never failed her before.

The landscape here was shifting, the dank moisture of swamps and peat drying out and fading into short yellowed grass and scattered sycamores and oaks. Shesi knew she was close to the edge of the Korcari Wilds when the odor of mud wasn't nearly as strong.

A scuffing startled her, and she whipped her head to the side, freezing; but it was just a bogfisher. Creepy creature, with its wrinkled, stocky body, leathery steel-grey hide, and snout built for nosing around in the swamp mud, but it was harmless and completely uninterested in her.

She needed to wash her leg—and peel off the leather—but the waters here looked _dirty. _Not the best thing for rinsing out an infected gouge. Boiling the water would've cleaned it, but she wasn't a mage and had no means to start a fire.

Her former clan had always relied on Keeper Marethari and Merrill to start fires, freeze things, heal, do everything the hunters could not. Without them…Shesi was really starting to miss a mage's presence.

There were voices up ahead.

Shesi slowed her pace, brushing her fingers against the rough bark of a sycamore and honing in on the noises. It sounded like two voices, a man and a woman; she crept a little closer and noted that the voices grew louder and didn't seem to be moving away, at least not at a fast clip.

"How far do you think we are?" said the woman's voice.

"I don't bloody know," the man's voice snapped back. "You think I brought along a fucking compass and map of every shrub on this path?"

"_Language."_

"Stuff it, sister. I'm in no mood to care."

Siblings, then. The voices sounded familiar. She crept ever closer, making out shapes in the dark—a woman's shape sitting cross-legged, a larger man's shape trying to start a fire by furiously rubbing two sticks together, a pile of armor pieces topped by a shield. The skin of both people was almost luminescent in its pale porcelain color, and if Shesi squinted her eyes, she realized the two of them had hair as black as pine pitch.

She put the voices and the features together, everything falling into place in her head.

River and Carver Hawke had escaped Ostagar.

Shesi limped closer, her heart pounding. No matter how she tried to remind herself that a Dalish hunter should not crawl over to a pair of humans like a wounded puppy, she couldn't stop herself; maybe her Dalish blood didn't matter, and maybe the humans did.

"Who's there?" River called into the darkness when Shesi purposely stepped on a twig and snapped it under her bare foot.

"It's not funny this time, Riv," Carver snapped grumpily.

"_This time _I'm not joking around," River insisted. "I heard a branch snap, and I can see someone standing…" the woman-shape rose to her feet, "…right there."

Shesi limped forward, her cut leg barely holding her weight; she leaned heavily on the trunk of a sycamore and stretched a hand out in greeting, muttering a faint "hello." Her voice sounded much raspier than she'd have liked.

"I remember you!" River took a step forward, and Carver jumped to his feet, all irritability erased from his features. "You're one of the Wardens! The one who promised to duel me after the battle. Looks like that won't be a possibility—oh, your _thigh. _That's a nasty wound…come here."

There wasn't a single elf in her former clan who would've limped even closer and exposed a potentially life-threatening, infected wound to a human. There wasn't a single elf in her clan who would've done what she did.

Shesi careened forward and threw herself into River's arms.


	11. The Perks of Being Antivan

_Apparently I'm on a writing binge today? :) Thanks for reading and supporting this!_

* * *

**The Perks of Being Antivan**

By his estimation, the town Corvis and Ellie had reached was directly north of Ostagar; _Lothering, _he read on a rickety wooden sign swinging in a cold, swampy breeze.

It was nothing like the cities he'd seen in beautiful Antiva, when he'd traveled back home to Rialto and Antiva City with his parents once or twice, felt the sun on his back and the sea mist from Rialto Bay on his skin. It was nothing even like Denerim, where he'd spent much of his young childhood before his magic manifested. Lothering looked…_sad. _Even from the road he could see a smattering of tents in a clearing right at the edge of town—refugees, they looked like. The buildings a little farther back had seen years of wear and tear, cold sunlight and soupy rainwater.

But at least the road was paved under his feet now; it was a sight better than tromping through the squelching mud of the Korcari Wilds. The air around had a sort of wet, dank chill to it, and everything smelled like peat moss and elfroot.

Disgusting.

He wrinkled his nose and sneezed.

"Bless you," Ellie said in a small voice from his side.

She'd barely talked since their escape from Ostagar, and the color had never quite returned to her skin. Losing their companions must have shaken her up nearly beyond repair. Corvis wasn't unsympathetic—nor unaware of the gravity of their situation—but they had things to do. These darkspawn, unless their competency took a nosedive, would not stop _themselves_.

"_Grazie," _he said in thanks, lifting a hand to shade his eyes from the piercing white glare of the hazy sun.

He almost missed the sound of Palla's sniping. _Almost. _And of Alistair's constant pleas to not be turned into a toad. Corvis wasn't certain if shapeshifting magic could even be aimed at someone else like that—most likely not—but the young ex-Templar nearly wetting his pants over the thought of becoming an amphibious creature had been too amusing to correct.

The road to Lothering became a sort of bridge ahead of them, grey and bleak, jutting over the basin Lothering sat in and sloping down into a set of stairs that led to the ground below. The more curious sight was _on _the bridge, though—a ragtag group of armed men, idly meandering and pretending to check out the view as if they weren't waiting for travelers to come by. They had a whole mess of crates spread around them, stuffed to the gills with miscellany: weapons of all makes, books, coats, satchels, coin purses with silvers leaking out of them, even a child's doll.

It didn't take a genius to figure out these ne'er-do-wells. Corvis couldn't help but roll his eyes at them; it was a romantic idea to a thug, preying on frightened refugees coming up the road, but these goons would likely be the first to greet the darkspawn on their scenic journey up the North Road.

"Who're they?" Ellie asked, her brows furrowing. "Travelers?"

Corvis shook his head. "_Idiots _is a better descriptor, I should think. Let me do the talking."

One of them, probably the de facto leader, looked up as they approached the bridge, and a grin spread over the man's face. He was sizing them up, taking in their armor and calculating how much it would sell for. Probably giving Ellie a once-over, too; elven girls were always at risk.

"Corvis?" Ellie asked again. Her chocolate brown eyes were flickering back and forth and around, taking it all in. "How are we going to get across the —"

"Is that doubt I hear?" he asked, keeping his expression smooth as the leader pushed off from his spot along the bridge's wall and approached them. "How silly. These men wouldn't have a leg to stand on when it came to a fight."

Not that any fight would need to happen.

"Travelers, travelers! Welcome to Lothering!" the leader said, his brown eyes bright as he raked his gaze over Corvis's and Ellie's apparel. "I trust you've had a perfectly terrifying journey up the North Road? Attacked by bog monsters? Ravaged by the chill? No doubt you're _dying _to reach safe little Lothering."

A valiant effort, but the highwayman was only trying to get them desperate to reach the village, and Corvis didn't _do _desperate.

"Are we speaking of the same road?" Corvis said, nonchalantly crossing his arms over his chest. "We've been skipping through fields of daisies and petting wild unicorns all the way up here. Lothering seems pretty pale in comparison, hmm?"

Of the several highwaymen who were now focused on the leader, only one stepped up beside him, a man with pasty white skin, a wide jawline, and a thick neck like an ox. "Err, boss, they don't look much like them others," he grunted. "Uh…maybe we should just let these ones pass…"

"We are, in fact, nothing like _them others," _Corvis agreed, fixing his attention on the leader. "Your compatriot has a sharp set of brains, my friend. He deserves a promotion, _si_? Maybe a better set of boots?"

The leader furrowed his brows and returned Corvis's gaze. "He doesn't—don't you start telling me how to run my operation, traveler." He eyed Ellie again, probably taking into account the nervousness fizzling off her like an electrical cloud. "It's a simple operation, really. Simple for me, simple for you. Twenty silvers, and we'll let you both pass into Lothering and never bother you again. Sounds lovely, doesn't it? Safety from darkspawn, some mead at the tavern…really, we're doing you a favor."

"Twenty silvers is a steep price, don't you think?" Corvis said, lifting a brow. "You're getting the price all wrong. See, the _goal _is to keep your prices slightly high enough to make you a profit, but low enough that customers won't shy away and look elsewhere. It's no wonder you have so little business."

It _had _been Corvis's birthright to take over his parents' mercantile business, after all; he knew a fair amount of trading practices from listening to his father. Not that any of these things mattered. His goal was to bullshit the bandits into a circle of confusion, and the leader seemed to be a little flustered.

"I think I know how to run this, thank you," the leader said in a clipped but forcedly bright tone.

"Do you?" Corvis pointed to a freshly-killed corpse stripped to nothing but smallclothes lying behind one of the crates. "Even your décor is atrocious. You give businessmen everywhere a bad name. I'm ashamed to have even met you."

"You're no businessman," grunted the one with the ox-jaws.

"Well, if he _is, _I'm sure he can afford twenty silvers," the leader said. "And even if he's _not—_"

"I wouldn't start trying to guess what I am," Corvis said, lowering his tone. "I don't think you'd like the answer."

He mentally willed Ellie not to blow their cover and play the mage card just yet. It wasn't a good idea to throw around one's identity as a mage here in Ferelden, even with their recent appointment to Grey Warden status.

Let them bounce ideas around in their own heads until they came up with whatever answer they wouldn't like. He'd work with that. If they came up with something themselves, let it stew in their heads, they'd be much more likely to buy it.

"Let's have a guess, since we're here having this chat," the leader said, giving Corvis another once-over. "Well obviously you're Antivan."

"Boss." The ox-shaped one gave Corvis a suspicious, wide-eyed look. "You think he's one of them Crows?"

_Perfect._

The leader vehemently shook his head. "Nonsense. The House of Crows wouldn't send someone to just walk up the North Road to Lothering. That's the worst idea you've had yet, and yesterday you told me eating tree bark was good for your skin."

"It _is!"_

"Oh, shut up."

"You think a Crow would _look _like a Crow?" Corvis said, crossing his arms a little tighter. "You think every _assassino _from the House of Crows walks around with armor made of bird feathers? Makes _caw, caw _sounds to others to signal his location? Don't you think one would be a little more tricky to identify?"

He could see the gears, albeit minimal ones, working in the leader's head. The man didn't want to give up the upper hand he thought he had, mostly because he was too drunk—metaphorically, unfortunately—off the prospect of robbing Corvis and Ellie blind.

"You are _no _Crow," the leader spat—but his eyes shifted, flickering sideways for a nearly imperceptible second. Whether or not he was subconsciously checking for an escape route off the bridge or making sure his companions were right there, it was a subtle gesture of nervousness. "I'll bet you couldn't wield one of these swords properly."

Better not to challenge that directly. Too much risk. The bandit was asking for a reckless display of bravado, probably intending to have his men swamp them both if Corvis picked up a sword.

"See, I don't think you'd want me to," Corvis said, dancing around the proposition instead. "Think about how many ways Crows have taken down targets. How many _weapons _have been used. Poisons that activate once they come into contact with skin. Cloaking tactics. Distractions." He shifted his weight casually to one hip. "Is the chance of twenty silvers worth that to you? Have you ever seen a man choke to death when poison dissolves his throat from the inside out? Not so pleasant."

Ellie made a quiet gagging noise from his side.

The leader and the thick-necked one looked at each other.

"What a coincidence, I just remembered we grant visitors free entry to Lothering on Tuesdays!" the highwayman chief said, stepping to the side and motioning for the rest of his gang to part and open up the bridge. "Enjoy your stay!"

Corvis smirked.

He probably had enough leverage to clear them out of Lothering entirely, but he wasn't emotionally invested in their shenanigans. "_Arrivederci, _gentlemen," he said, carefully stepping through the path they'd made for him by parting to both sides of the bridge—none of them seemed competent enough to do a fatal backstab, but there was no reason to take chances. Ellie followed, sandwiching as close to his side as possible. As he walked, he spotted a canteen sitting on one of their crates, and he reached over and snatched it up. "Also, I'm taking this. _Grazie _for your generous donation."

If they objected to his taking some of their water—presumably—they didn't voice it. He uncorked it and took a swig, then jammed the cork back in and jogged down the steps onto Lothering's solid turf.

"Water?" he asked Ellie, holding out the canteen. It was a little warmed from the sun, but warm water was better than dehydration.

"Thank you," she said in a small voice, stopping to take a sip. He paused, leaning on one hip as he waited for her. As she attempted to jam the cork back into the canteen's neck, she asked, "do you really have connections to the Antivan Crows?"

He laughed. "No, no, no. That was the fine art of bullshitting, Ellairia. Every Antivan knows how to do it, but just about none will admit to it."

"How much could you have learned of it if you weren't born in Antiva?" she asked, curiously.

"Where'd you get that?" He lifted an eyebrow, looking down at her. "I was born in Rialto."

Ellie shifted her attention to the ground and muttered "I was wrong."

The young healer was almost _painfully _shy after losing Palla, Shesi, and Alistair. Whatever enthusiasm she'd felt over adventuring outside of the tower had been successfully stomped into near oblivion.

But that was what life did to you.

"It happens," he said, leading the way into Lothering. There were a few folks hovering along the path—a farmer, a few refugees, an elven family begging for bread at the side of the road—and the air reeked so strongly of desperation that he nearly sneezed again. A couple of Templars regarded him and Ellie, and he casually skirted around them, not wanting them to catch a whiff of his and Ellie's magic.

Grey Wardens mages should've, for all intents and purposes, been immune to Templar scrutiny. But after Loghain's deception at Ostagar, Corvis wasn't certain that claiming Warden status was the smartest move.

They needed food and shelter. The local tavern would have at least the former. Corvis regarded the village Chantry with a curious look—there was a man out front screaming bloody murder about giving up to the darkspawn, and a Chantry priest trying his absolute best to drown out the ravings with the Chant of Light. No need to go in there; he stepped over a low stone bridge that crossed a small murky stream, spotting a sign that said _Dane's Refuge _in peeling letters.

The door creaked and groaned its sad protest as he pushed it open and stepped inside. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim lighting, but already he could tell the tavern was crowded, and more so than usual. He'd been in his far share of taverns as a young child—usually splitting a glass of whiskey with his father, much to his mother's dismay—but taverns usually had drunks and sailors and mercenaries inside, not poor farmers and weathered old ladies and children clinging to their mothers.

"Do you think they'll have food?" Ellie asked.

"They'll be low, but they'll have some," Corvis promised. "I doubt they'll give it up easily to strangers, though, so we'll have to be at our most persuasive."

Not having any money on him was starting to peeve him. Maybe _he _should have robbed the highwaymen on the bridge.

The only ones in here who didn't look like miserable refugees and villagers were a pair of men in full armor, looking about the tavern with shifty glances and standing conspicuously at one of the walls. They noticed Corvis and Ellie, and their eyes narrowed; Corvis was just about to try and deduce who they were when something—some_one—_grabbed his arm and yanked.

He reeled off balance, stumbling into a bench in a booth at a corner of the tavern and sitting down. Whoever had grabbed his arm was already seated at the booth, looking over at him with bright, intelligent grey-blue eyes.

Fair skin, pretty face, Chantry robes, short hair nearly as flaming red as Palla's. Corvis raised an eyebrow, looked down at the hand on his arm, and looked back up at the woman who still hadn't bothered to let go.

"Those men think you're Grey Wardens," she said in an unmistakably Orlesian accent. "And you are, yes? You match their descriptions."

"They've been describing us?" Corvis asked, his eyes narrowing.

"And asking everyone if they've seen you." The redhead looked past him, then returned to meeting his gaze. "I can help you, but you have to trust me."

Well that sounded suspicious. For all he knew, she wasn't even a Chantry sister at all, just a woman wearing the robes and trying to pull them aside for a proper ambush. It was already odd enough that there were armored men asking around about the remaining Wardens, and the whole thing was making Corvis slightly uneasy.

He needed a _bit _more information about the redheaded woman before he put himself and Ellie in a vulnerable position.

Ellie slid into the booth, at the bench facing them, and folded her hands in her lap with a hopeful smile. "We _do _need help."

Corvis wanted to slap his own forehead hard enough to dent his skull.


	12. A Flock of Hawkes

_My Hawke is so inappropriate, I swear._

_Thanks so much for all the support!_

* * *

**A Flock of Hawkes**

Ellairia had never been inside an actual Chantry before—only the chamber inside Kinloch Hold that had been dedicated as a makeshift place of worship—but she didn't have much time to study the interior before the redheaded woman steered her into a side room and closed the door behind them.

"There, that should be private enough," the woman said. She opened the lid of a heavy wooden trunk and knelt, rifling through its contents.

Ellie absentmindedly stared at the woman's strawberry hair and thought of Palla. Palla's hair was darker, more of a richer red, but both were red all the same, and being reminded of her and Alistair and Shesi didn't help Ellie's downcast heart.

"Here." The woman stood, swiveled, and handed Ellie a bundle of clothes. "Dressing you in something plainer should make people think you're nothing more than an elven beggar, so long as they don't pay too much attention."

"Can I wear it over my armor?" Ellie asked.

The woman chuckled lightly and shook her head. "Aren't you silly! That's _noticeable."_

True, Ellie supposed it would be; she mentally kicked herself for not thinking of that.

It didn't escape her that if she'd been the sole escapee from Ostagar, she probably would've had several chances to meet her end along the way here. Those bandits on the bridge would've made quick work of her if Corvis hadn't talked his way past them. The cold alone in the Korcari Wilds had been bad enough; she'd been dying to snuggle up to Corvis, but alas, she'd been too nervous to.

She chewed on her tongue as she worked her way out of her armor. The redhead, she noticed, had turned to face the wall to give Ellie a spot of privacy. Ellie's armor made a raucous rattling noise as she slipped the majority of it off and dropped it to the stone floor beneath her.

She may have been indoors, but standing here in a cotton breastband and panties was still chilly; her teeth chattered.

"What's your name?" Ellie asked as she plucked at her gloves to get them off. "I'm Ellie, by the way. Ellairia Surana. I came from—" Wait. Corvis had seemed reluctant to mention being a mage; maybe that meant something. "—Denerim."

"Denerim? The alienage, then?" The redhead didn't turn her head to look as she talked. "My name is Leliana. I'm a lay sister here at the Lothering Chantry. Or I was. And I want to help you."

Leliana. Pretty name. Ellie mouthed it, letting it roll around on her tongue as she slipped on a pair of roughspun pants lined with sheepskin. Nice and warm; she smiled at the sensation.

"No one else seems to want to," Ellie said, lifting her arms and wriggling into the tunic. "We've been on our own for a little while now."

"I'm not surprised." Leliana shifted her weight onto one hip. "You both are Wardens, no? Teyrn Loghain claims the Grey Wardens betrayed the king, haven't you heard?"

Ellie froze with one pant leg on, the other leg lifted to slip into them. "What? Huh?"

"So you don't know?" Leliana hummed to herself, as if she was reciting a poem rather than explaining to Ellie how her and Corvis's lives had just gotten exponentially more miserable. "Those two soldiers have been asking for Wardens of your description all morning. They claim the Wardens led King Cailin to his death. I apologize for startling you in the tavern, but I couldn't stand by and not help."

Ellie's tongue stuck fast to the roof of her mouth. _How? _Loghain had pulled his army from the battle. Loghain had sentenced everyone on the field to death. Ellie could've easily lost her life when she'd knelt at Duncan's body and tried again and again to pump him full of enough healing to get him on his feet. How could that sort of blame fall on the Wardens, who'd just lost their Commander and most of their ranks?

She remembered to get into her pants all the way and tug them up, although tremors of nervousness were crawling up and down her spine.

"Do you think changing clothes will help us hide?" she asked, cramming her feet back into her boots.

Leliana hummed again. "I'm afraid it's not a perfect solution. There isn't much you can do to change your faces. You're both recognizable, if those searching for you are paying attention. But it would help to have someone else accompanying you, yes?"

"I can't imagine why not," Ellie said.

Now dressed, she stooped to gather up the pieces of her armor. It was only until after scooping all the pieces into a clunky bundle in her arms that she realized she had no idea what to do with any of it.

"Anywhere I should put these?" she asked Leliana, rooted awkwardly to the spot.

"Don't you fret, I'll take care of them." Leliana turned and swept gracefully over to Ellie, her orange and red Chantry robes swishing around her ankles; she reached for Ellie's short, white-blonde pixie cut and mussed it up with her hands. "There. A little more messy."

"You think of everything," Ellie said, a smile slipping onto her face.

Leliana offered a smile of her own, her blue-grey eyes bright. "I wasn't always a Chantry sister, you know."

Maybe Corvis would be able to figure out more about her. Speaking of… "Where'd you send Corvis?"

"Your companion?" Leliana took the pile of armor from Ellie's arms and plopped it all in the same wooden trunk. "I firmly suggested he change into something other than armor, but he seemed suspicious. I suppose he's either doing as I said right now, or he's not."

That sounded like Corvis. Ellie suspected he liked being unpredictable.

"Come along, then," Leliana said, opening the door and tugging Ellie out of it.

Maybe it was a good thing they had both lost their staves in Ostagar. Being an elf in a Chantry with a staff strapped to her back would've gotten all kinds of bad attention. Ellie stepped quietly behind Leliana, looking and listening—someone was reciting the Chant at the other end of the Chantry, and she could hear the canticles echoing off the ceiling, strong and true. She liked to think the Maker was watching her, even now, even after scrambling out of disaster the way she had; maybe even a plain little elf like her was precious in the Maker's eyes.

It was something to hold onto, at least.

There were a few Templars stationed in the Chantry, seemingly faceless behind the heavy steel of their helmets, but Ellie didn't mind them. She'd grown up around Templars, after all, and she'd never had the same urge to escape Kinloch Hold that many of the other mages had. The tower had been her safe place, her library, her assortment of friends, her home. And Templars weren't so bad. You just had to be respectful and mind yourself around them.

One of the Templars, Cullen, had always been particularly sweet to her—opening doors, offering her greetings. She'd liked that.

The misty marsh sunlight wasn't enough to warm her when she and Leliana stepped outside, but she'd manage. She hugged her arms to her chest and glanced about, searching for Corvis's tall form.

There. She found him waiting for them just outside the Chantry, next to the village bulletin board. He'd changed into simpler clothes, just like she had. But the way the black tunic lightly emphasized his chest and waistline, the way the knee-high boots and tighter breeches hugged his legs…it was a good thing they were no longer in the Chantry, or the Maker might have smote her where she stood for the direction her thoughts had turned.

Also, she realized she had just been staring at his thighs for an inappropriate amount of time. That, and hoping he'd randomly turn around so she could get a look at his butt. She turned red and cleared her throat.

"_Salve," _he greeted in his own language, turning his head to look at them both. His amber-gold eyes flickered straight to Leliana, who put her hands on her hips and met his gaze head-on. "Now that we've divested ourselves of every form of protection at the behest of a stranger, shall we do something other than stand here and look pretty?"

"We must pick up supplies, no?" Leliana said.

"We?" Corvis repeated, lifting an eyebrow.

"Yes." Leliana lifted her chin a little. "You both need help, and I'm coming along."

"Why, exactly, do you have such conviction about following us?" he asked. "Everyone here in Lothering needs help, in some form or another. If you were only itching to _do good, _as it were, you'd probably be out in the marshes picking elfroot or helping tend to the wounded."

Ellie glanced back and forth between them, fiddling with her fingers.

"The Maker wants me to go with you," Leliana said firmly.

Corvis's eye twitched. "And I'm pregnant with twins."

"Oh, shush!" Leliana scolded him. "I know it must sound absolutely insane, but—it's true! I had a dream. A vision." Corvis opened his mouth to speak, but she drowned him out. "Look at the people here. They're lost in their despair, and this darkness, this _chaos, _will spread. The Maker doesn't want this. What _you _do—" she gestured first at him, then at Ellie, "—what you are _meant _to do, is the Maker's work. Let me help."

Corvis was currently staring at her like she'd just coated herself in honey and sprinted out in front of a bear. Ellie thought his jaw might actually detach from his face and hit the dirt; she pressed a hand against her mouth, trying not to giggle at his expression.

What if the Maker really _had _sent Leliana to help them? Ellie liked the thought.

"Did the Maker tell you to take our armor, too?" Corvis said. A slight breeze fluttered his raven-black hair, and he lifted a hand to smooth it back down.

Leliana made a light huffing noise. "We can retrieve them just before we leave, don't you think?"

He seemed to think for a moment, his expression shifting between varying emotions and settling on a calculated look. "_Va bene. _Come with us, if you like. For now."

"Oh, thank you!" Leliana said. "You won't regret this. I will _not _let you down."

"_Lo spero," _Corvis said; and though Ellie waited for a translation, he offered none.

* * *

The small wooden house was a bit cramped inside, a bit claustrophobic, but Shesi relaxed all the same.

She was fairly certain she hadn't been awake when Carver carried her in here; she'd fallen asleep on his back with her limbs hanging and swinging like a rag doll's as they'd made their way north through the marshes. Nor could she recall the torn wound on her thigh being wrapped in clean white bandaging, or being peeled out of her armor and changed into a fresh tunic and leggings.

She sat up, feeling the cushioned surface of a cot beneath her, and rested a hand over the bandages on her thigh. Her muscles tingled pleasantly with residual magic—healing magic, she could tell. Keeper Marethari and Merrill had known healing spells that felt somewhat like this.

Neither River nor Carver were mages. Shesi took a moment to idly wonder who they'd brought her to before she crossed her legs and looked curiously about the wooden dwelling.

Whoever lived here had been used to finer things than this, once. Shesi spotted a glass vase of swirled aquamarine and peridot green on a round end table with white tulips springing out of it, and a set of fine white linens stacked on a shelf across the room. This wasn't the house of someone who'd lived off the land their whole life, like the Dalish did, like Shesi once had.

"Look at you, awake and everything." River Hawke stepped out of an adjacent room and joined Shesi, sitting on the floor across from her. Her eyes were bright and alert, a mesmerizing shade of deep dark peacock teal; Shesi met her eyes and offered a tentative smile of her own. "Feeling a little more alive?"

"I'm better, yeah." The whirlwind of events between Tamlen's disappearance and the fight at Ostagar was a background thrumming in her head, a quiet drumbeat of continual unease. But she could take a deeper breath and _sit _now, just let herself ease into whatever the hell her life had become.

"Glad to hear it." River swept her thick ink-black hair over one shoulder and gave Shesi a friendly smile. She was dressed comfortably, Shesi noticed, a loose brown cotton tunic on her upper half and black breeches hugging her legs. "That was a doozy of a cut on your leg."

"Genlock ax," Shesi said, rubbing the back of her neck.

"Nasty fuckers." River rolled her own head around, presumably to loosen her neck muscles. "I'm glad you caught up to me and Carver when you did. Not a lot of us got out of Ostagar alive."

No. As far as Shesi knew, Palla and Corvis and Alistair and Ellairia had lost their lives in the fight. She swallowed hard.

"What _happened _there?" she asked. "We shouldn't have been overwhelmed like we were."

"Teyrn Loghain held his soldiers back at the last minute." River scowled. "Lothering is decently safe, for now, but I'd be careful if I were you. Do _not _tell anyone you're a Warden. I'm serious. Loghain's soldiers are under orders to hunt Wardens down if they pass through here."

Fucking hell. Shesi scrubbed her hands roughly through her hair.

How was she supposed to stem the tide of darkspawn swelling up from the south when she was probably the only Grey Warden left? She knew next to nothing about the Order, let alone human society. Her childhood in the woods had done her a disservice. She was unfamiliar with any of the human settlements, unsure how to stop the Blight when all she really wanted to do was raise a middle finger at it and climb a tall tree.

"Where can I get help?" she asked. "I don't know where the nearest big city is."

"I would try Redcliffe," River suggested. "Arl Eamon has always been friendly to the Warden cause, and his soldiers never reached Ostagar. But, first—you just woke up! I thought we could walk around Lothering a bit. Get some fresh air. Some sun. How's that sound?"

A bit of a metaphorical deep breath—and maybe several literal ones—might do Shesi some good.

"That'd be nice," Shesi said. "Just for a minute."

River grinned, stood, and offered Shesi a hand. "Carver is worried about you, you know."

"Your brother?" Shesi gripped River's hand and stood, bracing herself to let her legs adjust. "He doesn't seem like the worrying type."

"Oh, he's a softie under all that douche. You'll see." River led the way out of the cabin, holding the door open for Shesi.

Shesi didn't know her way around a human settlement, so she chose—for her own safety, probably—to follow close at River's heels and mimic what _she _did. As River ventured out into the main part of Lothering, greeting the occasional farmer or villager that walked by, Shesi tried to do the same. She was keenly aware of the funny looks she was getting, for her long ears and her _vallaslin, _but that was all they were: looks. Harmless.

"Lothering's been a bit of a mess for the past few days," River explained, stretching her arms over her head and cracking her back as she walked. "It's become a sort of funnel for all the refugees trying to come up north. No one wants to try their luck going through the Korcari Wilds or the Brecilian Forest alone, so they've stuck to the roads—and the road dumps them here."

"Aren't you worried about the darkspawn sweeping up the road?" Shesi tried to step in the drier bits of dirt and grass as she walked, but it was a futile endeavor with all of the churned up mud everyone tracked around. Still, she didn't mind a bit of dirt. "You saw how many were at Ostagar, same as I did."

"Yeah. I am." River paused to look about, making a sort of thoughtful humming noise. "And I consider myself responsible for my mother and for Bethany and Carver, so it's stressful, trying to think of how I can get them out of Lothering in time."

"Bethany?"

"My younger sister, Carver's—ah, speak of the angel."

"There you are, Riv," said a female voice. Shesi watched a fair-skinned woman with long, wavy ebony hair approach them, her skirts swishing around her knees. "I've been looking all over for you! Mother says—" Her chocolate brown eyes fell on Shesi. "Ah, you're the one I took care of. Feeling better?"

"Much," Shesi said. This must've been the mage who healed her leg. "I owe you all quite a bit."

"It's good practice for Bethany, regardless," River said. "She can't train very much here in Lothering. She kind of has to keep things under wraps."

"Ssssh," Bethany whispered, looking around nervously for a bit. Then she eased up again, giving the both of them a smile. "Riv, you know the merchant near the Chantry, right? The one that's taking advantage of the food shortages and charging too much?"

"Of course I do," River said. "I called him a cocksucking git and he demanded I be removed from his presence. People these days."

Bethany exhaled sharply, then kept going. "He lowered his prices! By half! Apparently some foreign merchant just came through and negotiated him down. Or threatened him down. He doesn't seem happy with it, but he's sticking with it. I'm going to stock up on groceries and tell Mother the good news."

"Do foreign merchants come through here often?" Shesi asked, curious.

"We're not a very popular settlement, no," Bethany said. "But—oh, look, there he is! I want to go thank him. He's really cute."

Shesi followed the direction she pointed with her eyes.

"_Nnnf," _River said, whistling. "Damn. I'd go straight to hell for a night with that one."

"River," Shesi said, blinking.

"Shesi, you _have _to be able to appreciate a fine work of art when you see one," River said.

"I do," Bethany admitted, her cheeks coloring.

"River," Shesi said, again. Her eyes were wide. "That's not some random foreign merchant. That's…_Corvis."_

No way. No way in hell he'd survived the slaughterhouse at Ostagar. But Shesi didn't forget faces, and there he was, dressed in commoner's clothes and talking with a redheaded Chantry sister. He even shook out his tanned hand a little to quench any sparks before he dragged it through the ink-black waves of his hair.

Shesi's breath nearly stopped, and a weight fell off her shoulders. Corvis would know what to do, with the Blight. It wasn't just up to her anymore. Provided he hadn't taken the opportunity to ditch the Wardens, that is.

"Corvis, Corvis," River repeated, touching her chin in thought. "_Oh. _He survived? That's good news!"

Shesi caught a flash of blonde just on the other side of Corvis, and when he shifted his weight, she realized it was Ellie. Her heart started thudding doubly fast. If two of them had survived out on the battlefield, and had made it to Lothering completely separate of her…maybe Palla and Alistair were alive as well.

She didn't want to hurt herself, hoping for it. But…

"I don't know who he's talking to," Shesi said, gesturing to the Chantry sister. "But I don't think running over there and reuniting with them is the best thing to do right now; you did say there are troops all over here searching for us Wardens. I don't want to blow their cover."

"Easy. I'll call him over _here." _River cupped her hands over her mouth. "_Hey! _Nice ass!"

"_River," _Bethany scolded, her face reddening further.

Shesi wanted the ground to eat her whole.

But it had the intended effect of getting Corvis to look over where they were—and he seemed vastly un-offended by River's catcalling. If he immediately knew someone was speaking to him when they said "nice ass", he probably got complimented a lot.

Then his eyes settled on Shesi, and they widened a bit, probably matching hers.

It took him no hesitation at all to motion to Ellie—and the redhead, to Shesi's confusion—and walk the short distance to where Shesi stood with River and Bethany. "Well, well," he said, giving her a crooked smile. "Someone slipped right out of Ostagar without anyone noticing."

"Shesi!" Ellie careened forward and hugged her; Shesi just managed to brace herself and avoid tumbling over. The slightly taller elf smoothed her hands affectionately up and down Shesi's back a couple times, then stepped back, her face flushed. "I can't believe you made it!"

"All thanks to the Hawkes," Shesi said, gesturing at River and Bethany. "Should we be…?"

"Oh, don't you worry about me," the redhead said sweetly. "I'm here to help."

"This is Leliana," Ellie said excitedly, introducing her. "She's joined up with us. And now you're here! Have you seen Palla?"

Shesi shook her head, sobering. "No. I'm not sure if she and Alistair made it out."

"They may have made it out," Corvis said nonchalantly. "We'll hear her before we see her, regardless. They say if you hold your ear up to a seashell, you can hear Palla sniping at you."

"That's awful," Ellie said.

River crossed her arms loosely over her chest. "Corvis, I believe we have you to thank for making that knobhead merchant lower his prices. Now my family can actually buy food. So thank you. It's probably not safe to keep having these talks out here—shall we all head over to the grand Castle Hawke and talk in private?"

"I think that would be a good idea, _si," _Corvis said. Ellie watched him, then nodded.

"Off we go, then," River said, gesturing for them all to follow her back to her family's cabin.


	13. Wherever You Are

_Well guys, I am officially back from holiday hiatus! Hope you all had happy holidays. _

_Thank you all ever so much for your patience with this. A lot of my writing focus got bumped to ToTL during 2015, but it looks like I'll be having a lot more open time to write in 2016, so I should be able to get the ball rolling faster with this one. Here's hoping!_

* * *

**Wherever You Are**

Palla was two seconds away from picking up a rock and pegging it at either Morrigan or Alistair. Likely Morrigan; Alistair was too sweet to stay angry with.

Still, the two of them had been squabbling nonstop on the road northward to Lothering, and she almost thought she'd prefer the sounds of darkspawn bearing down on them to the constant din of their pissing matches. Well, no, obviously not; but a lot of sounds had to be better than this.

"I just can't believe Loghain would do it," Alistair said, his armor clinking as he stepped over a gnarled tree root in the middle of the path. "_Why? _What does he hope to gain from sending so many to die and blaming it on the Wardens?"

"Perhaps the Wardens griped and whined enough for him to resolve to kill _them _instead of the darkspawn," Morrigan said pointedly.

Alistair's presence seemed to bring out the absolute worst in Morrigan. Palla had thought the witch had a touch of a softer side, when she'd helped her cook stew in Flemeth's cabin…but Morrigan had been nothing but touchy and irritated ever since. Her voice was always like silk dipped in toxins—smooth, lovely feel to it, barbed and meant to hurt.

Palla had spent much of her life watching her parents deal with snippy nobles—and eventually dealing with them herself—and so she'd developed some skill in reading people. She couldn't manipulate people as easily as breathing the way some could, but she could at least guess motivations. And to her trained eye, Morrigan thought Alistair was weak and had no respect for him because of it.

Was it weak to grieve? To feel pain? Maker knew Palla had ragged on herself enough, for feeling the loss of her family.

"Does the concept of caring for someone else make _no _sense to you?" Alistair snapped. Palla was in the front and couldn't see his expression, but he sounded like smoke was pouring out of his ears. "What would you have done if your _mother _had died there?"

"Before or after I stopped laughing?" Morrigan said.

"Right. Creepy," Alistair said. "Forget I asked."

"We all deal with loss differently, Morrigan," Palla said coolly. Her own sense of loss was fighting to resurface ever since she'd let Shesi, Ellie, and Corvis die at Ostagar.

She'd failed them all. Shesi had never met a human before being forced into the Wardens, and she'd died amongst strangers, yanked into a stranger's war. Corvis and Ellie, as mages, would've had no way to defend themselves from a direct attack. Palla should have been in the battle with them, not wading through a darkspawn-infested tower just to light a meaningless signal fire.

"Some of us contemplate our own navel for hours on end," Morrigan said.

"It's called _hanging your head and thinking." _Alistair sounded about ready to choke something, now. "You should try it sometime."

Palla bent as she walked and picked up a smoothed rock midstride, tossing it up and down in her palm as she went. It felt cool to the touch in her hand; the ground hadn't quite thawed from the chill of last night.

"One must wonder what you intend to do with that stone," Morrigan said from behind Palla, her voice unwavering.

Very likely she thought Palla would _actually _throw it, and Palla frowned.

"I'm just squeezing it to get some stress out, I suppose," she said, doing exactly that.

"Interesting method," Morrigan said.

"Maybe you should name the rock 'Morrigan'," Alistair said. "And then chuck it off a cliff as hard as you can. That sounds absolutely cathartic."

"Oh? We've regressed to naming inanimate objects?" Morrigan snorted. "Shall we give this rock an official rank amongst the Wardens, too? Look, what a marvel—we induct a rock into our esteemed ranks, and Alistair is still the dumbest one among us."

"Mages," Alistair grumbled. "Most of you are right prigs. Why couldn't Ellairia have survived Ostagar? Maybe then we wouldn't have needed you to come with us."

Palla kicked a loose pebble as she walked. "Much as I would've loved to save her, Alistair…I don't think it would've changed Morrigan's involvement. Different mages know different spells." She breathed out a light laugh through her nose. "And I noticed you didn't mention Corvis."

Alistair hummed a bit. "You _know _he was just waiting for the right moment to turn me into a newt. Or set me on fire. Bit crazy, that one."

Possibly, although Palla wished she could've saved his life, too. She absently tossed the rock into a low marsh bush at the side of the path, the prickly leaves rustling as the stone disrupted them.

"Maybe," she said. "I already miss him, though."

Alistair fell silent after that, although Palla could still hear his rather uneven breathing. Not from exertion, she knew; the warrior was in great shape. Not that she'd seen under his armor to know for sure—unfortunate, that—but one could just tell. She frowned sympathetically—and empathetically—feeling her own throat tighten and sting.

Morrigan didn't prompt conversation, either. She walked so much more softly than Alistair that Palla kept trying to sneak looks over her shoulder to make sure she was still there. No doubt Morrigan caught every single one of them.

"Look, there it is," Alistair said after what felt like two more years of walking, as the path evened out from squishy marsh mud to a more hard-packed clay. "Lothering. Pretty as a painting."

Right he was—about Lothering being right in front of them, rather. Pretty as a fancy painting it was not, but at least it was _there_. The small town of Lothering lay in the grassy basin before them, full of people and animals and _life._

"And right in the path of the darkspawn," Palla said, her jaw tightening. "Assuming they don't fan out and go east and west, that is. Morrigan, how far ahead of the horde do you think we are?"

"Your injuries delayed us," Morrigan said, twisting to look behind them, staring at the marshy path they'd just traversed. "T'would be my estimate to say the darkspawn are but a day behind us. I would not tarry here. Let us find supplies and move quickly on."

Palla shaded her eyes from the sun, squinting in an effort to see better into the village. This wasn't the first time she'd envied elves for their catlike eyesight; with the mist rolling out of the marshes and the sun's white-bright glare, she could barely see anything specific in the village ahead.

"I think we should head to the village Chantry first, if it has one," Alistair said. "The Chantry will be the ones organizing relief efforts."

"And they should be able to point us towards quick supplies before we head out." Palla nodded. "What about Morrigan?"

Alistair's expression soured. "If the Maker sees fit to smite her for stepping into a Chantry, I won't be doing any grieving."

"Not the _Maker," _Palla said. "Templars. There's bound to be a few in there, and she _is _technically an apostate. I don't want her dragged off to a Circle."

"If I take another form, will it end this discussion?" Palpable tendrils of magic warped and snapped where Morrigan had been standing, the air crackling with purplish haze; Palla watched as the haze cleared and a raven took flight, perching in the lowhanging branch of a nearby tree.

Palla nearly jumped out of her skin.

It made sense that Morrigan could shift shapes. All Witches of the Wilds were rumored to have the ability. Yet Palla had never witnessed this in person before, and to say it startled her would be a vast understatement.

She took a deep breath to compose herself and, not wanting to waste any time, strode forward towards the village.

* * *

Corvis accepted the mug of hot chamomile tea Bethany offered him, cupping his hands around the mug and letting the tea's radiating heat warm up his palms.

"Can I get you anything else?" Bethany asked, watching him with intelligent brown eyes.

"I'm fine, _grazie," _he said, taking a seat on a wooden trunk at the side of the room and watching the others. He would've accepted an entire bottle of hard liquor—and taken all of two seconds to knock it all back—but he sincerely doubted the family would happily sit by and watch him decimate their alcohol reserves.

Simple house, he noted, but not simple folks. Leandra Amell carried herself like a woman of noble stature, head held high, shoulders set proudly no matter what she was doing. She'd birthed quite the mixed bag of children—Bethany seemed to be of the nervous, kind sort, River was vivacious and a tad quirky, and Carver was…grumpy.

Not that Corvis had any right to judge on _that _front, at times.

Carver wasn't _all _grump, at least. Just the variety who muttered under his breath and compared everything he did to his older sister. An only child himself, Corvis hadn't been exposed to typical sibling dynamics until he'd been thrust into Kinloch Hold, and that had been more like a swirling vat of adolescent dramatics than anything else.

"I'll get the stew going in a moment, mum," River said to Leandra, plopping down on the same trunk as Corvis, despite the fact that there was almost no room for her. As such, he shifted to the side as much as possible—never mind that there was barely any side to shift to—but her thigh still pressed against his. "Let's talk about Ostagar."

"Did you suddenly develop a selective blindness for chairs?" Corvis asked, amused.

"Nah." River bumped her shoulder amicably against his. "I'm warming you up, luv. I've been told you Antivans are delicate desert flowers when it comes to the cold." She winked. "And I'm good at warming people up."

Corvis lifted an eyebrow, smirked knowingly in return, then turned his attention to the others.

"What's there to talk about regarding Ostagar?" Shesi asked, helping Carver wipe down the table in the middle of the house with a clean rag. "We survived. We were framed. We have a horde of darkspawn coming up from the south."

The Dalish elf looked like a pint-sized figurine next to Carver's muscular bulk. The top of her mussed brunette head only reached about to his chest. She didn't seem intimidated by that, though; if anything, Shesi put on the same deceptively dull face for any situation and barely showed even her outermost thoughts.

"It isn't so easily distilled down," Corvis said. "No doubt one of Loghain's men has spotted us here and sent a runner to inform him by now. And if he put so much effort into framing us the first time, I'd wager he won't let us run willy-nilly about Ferelden without interference."

"He can't just abandon us to the darkspawn," Carver said. "It's _wrong."_

"He's done it once already," Shesi said.

What _were _Loghain's motives? Everyone had a reason for their actions, and Corvis didn't suspect sadism as the cause. He regretted he didn't know more about Fereldan politics; it might've made the guessing game easier.

The front door swung open, and in bustled Leliana and Ellairia, each with armfuls of freshly cut elfroot. "This should be enough to last us a while," Leliana said as Bethany laid a cloth flat out on the floor for them to bundle the elfroot in.

"Do you know how to extract elfroot juice?" Shesi asked.

Leliana looked over at her, short red hair swinging. "Don't you?"

Shesi shook her head. "I was never that great at herbalism."

"But you're Dalish," Leliana protested. "You live off the land. Isn't herbalism an essential skill?"

"We aren't all jacks-of-all-trades," Shesi said. "I can't shoot a bow for shit, for example. We have halla-keepers who've barely lifted a weapon in their lives. We have craftsmen who forge ironbark. We have Keepers and Firsts and herbalists. We have hunters and rangers, like myself. It's better for the clan as a whole if everyone specializes."

"I don't think I've ever met a Dalish elf who couldn't shoot a bow," River mused aloud.

"You ever met a Dalish elf?" Shesi asked.

"Touché," River said.

"We don't get any Dalish through here," Carver said, briefly looking down at Shesi before clearing his throat. His face had a sudden ruddy tinge. "You're not like any other elf."

Was he…? Good grief. Corvis almost snickered.

"I might as well be like every other elf, now." Shesi shrugged. "Keeper banished me for good, to the Wardens, and most clans reject those who leave them. Not that I have any intention of begging my way back in."

"So I take it you won't be returning to your people," River said. "Good for us Fereldans, I should think—we'll need as many skilled Wardens as possible with the horde coming up from the south. Although I doubt you have the time or the numbers to stay and defend the village."

"Shouldn't we stay and help everyone evacuate?" Ellie asked from where she knelt on the wood floor, rolling the canvas cloth around the elfroot stems.

"Suicide mission," Shesi said casually.

I believe we're Wardens, not witless martyrs," Corvis said. "All of Cailin's forces _and _most of Duncan's Wardens, excluding us, lost their lives at Ostagar. The horde's barely reduced in number. And I'd always imagined myself dying on a velveteen chaise-lounge from brandy poisoning."

"That is _bizarrely _specific," River said.

Corvis chuckled. "I like planning ahead."

"I doubt the horde's far off." Bethany rubbed her arms with her palms. "Whole thing makes me nervous. I hope my magic will be enough to defend us, should they come."

Carver shot his twin a tempestuous look. "And what's my sword, chopped goose liver?"

"I think it's steel, brother," River said. "Could you imagine a sword made out of goose liver? Like a floppy, flaccid—"

"—piss off."

"After you."

"_Language," _Leandra Amell called sharply from another room of the small house.

"We need a plan of attack," Shesi said. "Figuratively." She turned eyes of deep jade green to Corvis. "Thoughts?"

"We'll need bolstered numbers and some amount of political support, since I'm certain none of us daydream about rotting in unmarked graves at the side of the road. And right now, we have to be concerned about darkspawn _and _soldiers from Denerim." Corvis rubbed the back of his neck in thought. "I wish I'd taken a look at those treaties before handing them off to Duncan. That might've solved the _numbers _conundrum. _Mannaggia."_

"If I had to guess," Shesi said, "the Dalish are on that treaty. We've—_they've _always been at the very least tolerant of Grey Wardens. At the best? Sympathetic and willing to help."

"East, then?" Leliana asked. "There are Dalish in the Brecilian Forest, wouldn't you think?"

Shesi nodded. "For now. Until they catch wind of the horde coming and bail."

"Then we catch them," Corvis said firmly. "Getting on the road tomorrow at dawn is our best bet."

Ellairia gave him and Shesi plaintive looks in turn. "What about Lothering? I know it'd be risky, getting everyone out safely, but…aren't they all doomed to die?"

River's eyes softened sympathetically. "This is the world outside the Circle, sweetheart. We don't have walls protecting us. We have our weapons and our wits, and that's it. Every man for himself out here. You want to live? You get yourself a nice sword and grow a pair of balls. That's what I've always told myself, anyway."

"I don't think I needed to know that last detail about you," Corvis teased.

River snickered, bit her bottom lip, and smacked him lightly on the shoulder.

Falling silent, Ellairia returned to her task of rolling the stems.

"I shan't sleep tonight if we keep discussing these darkspawn," Bethany said, playing with her fingers. "Let's get a bite to eat, alright? What comes will come, and maybe we shouldn't test our luck by talking about it overmuch."

"Happier things, then," River promised with a grin. "Food it is."

* * *

"_Alistair," _Palla said firmly. "Are you _sure _you're alright?"

The man had been silent ever since they'd stepped into Lothering's bounds. It had been Palla who'd done all of the conversing since then, whether it was with her silent companions or town residents. The sky was darkening with the promise of dusk, and then nightfall, as she'd bought rations of dried meat and dried fruit from a merchant outside the village Chantry. The merchant's prices had been low, oddly so for the obvious neediness of the villagers around him—and he'd not done much but mutter blasphemes about "arsehole Antivans" and whatnot. Palla had no idea what the random racism was for, but she'd decided not to ask.

As of right now, she'd decided to stop and ask Alistair how he was faring, spurred on by his quietude.

"I just can't believe it," he said, not for the first time. "But I suppose I shouldn't be burdening you with it. Especially not while _crow-Morrigan," _he cast a venomous look at a tree above them, "looks on and judges me from her perch."

"Crow-Morrigan has better things to do than laugh at you for your grief," Palla said gently, resting a hand on Alistair's forearm. "I think."

"Oh, that's reassuring."

Palla teasingly whapped him on the shoulder. "We'll get a chance to avenge Duncan, you know? _And _stop the Blight. We can do it. Can you imagine how proud he'll be of you when Ferelden is safe again? How proud he is _now?"_

Alistair, naturally, tried to protest that. "I sincerely doubt he's proud of us wandering with _Morrigan _and snatching supplies before we flee further up the road, wouldn't you agree?"

"Hey," she said, "we're getting there. We're building up strength and numbers and then we're going to whoop so much darkspawn arse that _every _Warden who lost a life at Ostagar will be damned proud of you."

The warrior smiled softly, almost tentatively—he looked adorable with that expression, she thought, especially with that dusting of freckles across his nose.

"You know," he said, "of all the Wardens who survived…I'm glad it was you."

Palla opened her mouth to respond, only to be drowned out when the crow above them cawed raucously and flapped its wings.

"…and I think I just made Morrigan vomit," Alistair said, looking up. "Can birds vomit? I always wondered."

"Not the way you're thinking, but birds can do a lot of things I'd rather not provoke." All of them involving claws and beaks, really. Palla regarded the dusken sky, deepening in autumnal orangey hues as night just began to settle over Lothering. "We'll need to find a place to sleep soon. And be up _early. _I can't predict exactly when the darkspawn will reach Lothering."

"Agreed," Alistair said, gesturing for her to lead the way.

Her first thought was to ask the local innkeep if he had any rooms available—or if he'd be willing to let them sleep in a corner on the floor until dawn—so she spotted a wooden sign proclaiming _Dane's Refuge _swinging from a building across the small stone bridge and set off towards it.

There weren't a large number of people out and about, right now. Palla saw a few men gathering up their children and corralling them into houses for the night; a woman with graying hair hobbling into the local inn; a Chantry sister walking with a light-skinned elf with short wheat-blonde hair.

Palla's heart jumped into her throat.

"Is that—" Alistair said breathily.

"Ellie?" Palla cried, her pulse pounding in her ears. Could it be? What if she was hallucinating, what if… "Ellie!"

The elf stopped. Turned her head. Widened her eyes.

Palla was barreling forward before she knew what her own legs were doing; Ellie let out a happy squeal and bolted forward, straight into her arms. Palla lifted her clear off her feet and swung her around in a circle, squeezing so tight she thought she might accidentally break the healer's ribs.

"You're alive!" Ellie exclaimed when Palla set her on her feet. "I can't believe you're alive! But you and Alistair were in the tower when Ostagar was—how did you make it? I—Maker, I'm so happy to see you! Was it—"

"Miracles," Palla said, watching Alistair grin widely and sweep Ellie into a hug of his own. "Bloody fucking miracles."

She glanced up at the trees above her, spotting the crow's slim black silhouette. Morrigan was, true to form, avoiding the celebratory hugs; she hadn't even materialized in human form to take credit for saving Palla and Alistair. No doubt she wanted as little to do with their group interactions as possible.

Despite the thrill of seeing Ellie alive and safe…something had to be asked. "Ellie…did the others…?"

"Oh, you will be pleasantly surprised," said the Chantry sister with short red hair behind Ellie. "You are the two missing Wardens, yes? Everyone is waiting for you."

"Everyone?" Palla said.

The Chantry sister nodded. "I—"

"_Palla!" _yelled a voice, slightly raspy with emotion.

Palla barely noticed the small, dark form charging at her before Shesi leapt straight into her arms. Sucking in a breath, Palla scooped the Dalish hunter into what was surely a painfully tight hug, her throat squeezing and her eyes threatening to water.

"Shesi," Alistair said, releasing the slightest ghost of a laugh. "Maker's breath. I can't believe this."

The elf was shaking in Palla's arms, so she didn't bother setting her on her feet yet—just held her, burying her face in her neck, nearly choking on her own relief.

"We're missing one, aren't we?" Alistair noted. "Corvis. Is he—"

"He went somewhere with River a moment ago," Ellie said, her eyes big and brown as she glanced back and forth between Palla and Alistair. "River Hawke—you remember her, right? She and her brother survived Ostagar, too."

Alive. _Alive. _So many had lost their lives to darkspawn blades at Ostagar, and yet their little group had made it out. Palla thought her heart might explode from the relief and joy of it all. Finally after a moment she slowly set Shesi back on her feet, although truthfully she might've continued the hug for the next five years of circumstances had permitted.

"Are you…crying?" Alistair asked gently, touching Palla's shoulder.

She nodded, sniffling. "It's just…"

He smiled. "I know."

"Come inside," the Chantry sister offered. "You must be exhausted, poor dears. We're staying with the Hawkes tonight, and I believe the stew will still be warm."

Palla nodded wordlessly, then looked up at the crow in the tree.

_You're welcome too, you know, _she thought, as if Morrigan could hear her. _You can be a part of this strange little family if you want._

Obviously, her thoughts remained unanswered. But Palla wouldn't push the witch to join them—she smiled at the others and followed them instead, relaxing for the first time in what felt like years.


	14. Name Your Price

_I'm crossing my fingers that I'm getting some sort of decent writing pace going! Thank you all ever so much for your reviews, follows, faves, and love._

* * *

**Name Your Price**

Corvis yawned, crossing his arms behind his head.

He could feel shafts of early morning sunlight beaming into the room, settling in patches on his skin where the blankets didn't cover. Heaving a lazy breath, he crooked one leg up and shifted a bit in the bed, reluctant to force his eyes open.

"_Corvis_," River said in a singsong manner—sounding utterly too cheerful for the hour it probably was—as she smoothed her hand along his bare chest. "Up and at 'em, sleepy. I can hear the others moving around in the main room."

"Offer them my congratulations for having the motivation to move," he said, a half grin tweaking the corner of his mouth.

"Grump." River chuckled lightly, her fingers skimming up his neck and to his jaw. "C'mon. I know it's early, but you want to beat the darkspawn, don't you?"

"_Si, si," _he said, yawning again. "Into a pulp. With a rake. In approximately five hours."

"Mmh, sounds like fun." She planted her hands on his chest and slowly pressed her mouth to his in a soft kiss; Corvis reached up to thread his fingers through her soft hair, opening his eyes only when she pulled away.

She propped herself up on one arm, barely covered by blankets and unashamed of her own nakedness. Her thick hair, black as ink and glossy, spilled over one shoulder, and she watched him with deep peacock-green eyes that were slightly hooded with early morning sleepiness.

Tired still, he skimmed the backs of his fingers against her side, the curve of her breast, feeling the softness of her ivory skin. She bit her lower lip and smiled saucily at him, raking her eyes over his form.

"Got you to open your eyes," she said triumphantly.

He grinned, chuckling. "The view was worth it."

"You're not bad yourself, gorgeous." River traced a meaningless pattern on his abdomen with her index finger. "Whatever you took or did to make yourself a Grey Warden…does it give you crazy amounts of stamina or something? I'm beat."

"I'm starting to think so," he said. Not that he didn't know what he was doing in bed—far from it—but…_merda. _If River could still walk this morning, he'd consider it good fortune. "Duncan never explained the full logistics of the Joining to us, which is frustrating; I'd much prefer to know exactly what I got myself into."

But it was obviously too late for answers.

"Not a fan of surprises, eh?" she said.

He shook his head. Not ones like _that; _not the surprises that involved ingesting some foreign substance that tasted absolutely foul and waking up with some sort of changed body. He considered himself fairly adaptable, but it was hard to analyze a situation and predict its outcome when the nature of it was still largely unknown.

He'd practically eaten _buckets _of stew last night, too. He felt ravenous, and more-than-uncomfortably jittery; something was fucking with his metabolism.

"Then don't tell Carver about this," she continued. "Unless you fancy a surprise fist to the face."

"Don't worry," Corvis said with a grin, holding his hand up and flaring his fingers; fire briefly flickered in his palm. "I'm decently fist-proof."

Not that he needed to be. Carver wasn't stupid, but anyone could be tricked with the right amount of effort. Corvis's full Antivan blood and upbringing in the neighborhoods of Rialto easily afforded him many things, including the ability to lie. When he felt like it.

"Well. Don't be too cocky—I wouldn't want to see anything happen to that pretty face of yours if you were wrong." River snickered at the word _cocky, _reaching down to squeeze his inner thigh over a thin film of sheets.

He smirked. "I'm rarely wrong."

"Oh, you're cute." She pushed her hair behind her shoulders. "What am I thinking about, Oh Omniscient One?"

"Hmm." He watched where her eyes flickered. "You're considering getting dressed, but you don't exactly want to. Although the smell of eggs cooking is starting to tempt you."

"Damn," she said, whistling. "You're good."

He laughed mildly in response.

"And we do _need _to get up," she added. "I know it's really fucking early, and it's probably cold as balls outside, but you Wardens need to get on your way. You've got a world to save."

Corvis almost bristled at the phrase. World to save; he'd never wanted to be any sort of hero. Heroes didn't habitually lie, test the bonds of authority, best their superiors, take women to bed without any commitment behind it.

"And I suppose the darkspawn wouldn't respect a request for enough time to drink coffee," he said, sitting up, his muscles aching pleasantly from last night's…activities.

"Maybe if you ask nicely enough," she teased. "I—"

The door in the house's main room slammed open, and Corvis heard feet patter into the threshold.

"They're on the horizon!" Shesi's unmistakable voice yelled, ringing through the house's wooden walls. River sat up straight, her face paling. "We need to get ready to go!"

"Corvis—" River said.

He was up on his feet before she could finish the sentence, hurriedly yanking on clothing and straightening them as best he could. Armor, armor…no, Leliana had left that somewhere in the village Chantry, damn it all. He and Ellie would have to survive armor-less and staff-less for the time being.

"Go," River urged him, buttoning her tunic. "I'll be right behind you in a minute."

"Be careful," he said, then shoved the door open and ran into the main room of the small house.

Shesi was still in the room, peering out the front door with a grave look on her face, and there was Leliana helping Carver buckle the straps on his rough leather armor; Leandra Amell was rushing to stuff food and supplies into sacks, her graying hair falling over her forehead. Ellie was stooped over by the mantle, lacing up her boots with fumbling fingers, and Palla was—

Palla?

"Corvis," the warrior breathed, glancing over at him as she rushed to bind her apple-red hair in a sloppy bun. "I'd hug you and greet you properly, but we obviously don't have time for that."

"Are we truly leaving everyone here to fend for themselves?" Ellie asked, straightening.

"You have to get packed up and go," River insisted, skidding into the room after Corvis. She had two daggers at her belt, but very little armor—unprotected. She'd either have to dodge blows, or take a fatal one. "Carver, Bethany and I can hold off as many as we can, but..."

Carver spotted River and Corvis, looking them over suspiciously. If he noted them coming out of the same room at different times, and if he'd mused over them both disappearing from the group chatting last night...he didn't say as much. Corvis suspected there was more on his mind, that he was probably more concerned with the darkspawn than his elder sister's exploits.

For the moment.

"But you shouldn't stay and find out how many you can hold off," Alistair insisted, jogging into the room in full armor.

Alistair? Yes, that made sense. Palla wouldn't have survived and left him behind. She wasn't like that.

Wanting to see the arising situation for himself, Corvis stepped outside, fire reacting to his tension and licking thinly up his wrists.

It seemed Shesi had spotted the darkspawn on the horizon, and not overwhelming Lothering like he'd previously assumed. He inwardly thanked her sharp elven eyesight for allowing them a bit of breathing room. Her yell must have alerted the townsfolk to the problem, if the ugly dark grey stain on the horizon hadn't alerted them instead; people ran about in a collective tizzy, children screaming and crying, footfalls pounding in the wet mud and grass.

The Chantry had already been swarmed. It seemed some of the villagers, assuming some faraway Maker would protect them, had gotten the idea to rush _into _the Chantry rather than flee. Others still were trying to get _out _of the building, and the doorway looked like a narrow spit of land with two opposite streams converging on it.

_You have a world to save, _River had said.

He wouldn't. Not here. Standing against the darkspawn in Lothering would be a martyr's act.

"I'd rather make sure no one tries to just hunker down and _hide_," Palla said from behind him, abruptly joining him outside, "but look at the Chantry…"

"What's that?" Corvis asked, pointing elsewhere.

There, the edge of town. He must not have spotted it on his way in, but there was a tall iron cage stranded upright at the outskirts of the grass field, and the unmistakable form of a person inside it.

"Maker," Palla said. "Corvis, we need to see who that is."

"Palla—"

"You can 'Palla' me later. Right now I want to make sure people have a _way_ to escape, at the very least. Come with me, please? I might need your help if there's trouble."

She took off at a run.

Corvis decided to follow her, for the hell of it. Someone with Palla's _let's-save-everyone-ever _complex was bound to get themselves killed, and even though Corvis usually gave less than zero fucks about someone running to their own doom…bah, he wasn't going to finish that thought.

Her persimmon hair was a vivid beacon even in the thick early morning fog, the bouncy motion of her run making it loosen just a bit from its messy bun. Even _if _she managed to outrun him—unlikely, with her armor weighing her down—the slapping of her sword's sheath against her thigh was loud enough to follow.

Where had her shield gone? Lost in the tussle of Ostagar, probably.

"The fuck…?" Palla said, hushed, as she slowed to a stop near the iron cage.

Corvis had read about Qunari, but never had the luxury of seeing a Qunari warrior before.

The books in Kinloch Hold's library hadn't kidded about their size. This Qunari man was easily a solid foot taller than Corvis, who wasn't _short _by any means. His roughspun tunic did little to hide the iron muscles bulging under dark grey skin, and his hair was strikingly white, braided in an unfamiliar fashion in rows along his head. Hornless, though—didn't the books say Qunari usually had horns protruding from their skulls? Interesting.

"_Shok ebasit hissra," _the man was murmuring. "_Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun."_

"Hey," Palla said, as Corvis came to a stop next to her. She took a step towards the cage, casting a quick glance towards the grey cloud of approaching darkspawn on the horizon. "Who put you in here? What did you do?"

The Qunari turned to look at them with deep-set eyes the color of lavender petals. Not the most masculine of colors for such a hulking warrior, Corvis noted.

"You gawk," the Qunari grunted at Palla, clearly unamused. "I will not amuse you any more than I have the other humans. Leave me in peace."

"In _peace?" _Palla squawked. She pointed. "Look at that horde of darkspawn coming up the road! They'll reach Lothering within half an hour."

"Yes. I am not blind to the world directly around me, human."

Palla blew upwards, fluffing a strand of red hair out of her face.

"Who are you, soldier?" Corvis asked, trying the more direct approach. Perhaps the Qunari favored straightforwardness. "Identify yourself."

Purple eyes shifted to Corvis. "I am Sten of the Beresaad, vanguard of the Qunari peoples."

"Corvis Nalida da Rialto, formerly of Kinloch Hold," he replied, half-bowing. "A pleasure."

Palla looked at him funny.

"You mock me," Sten said. "Or you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands. Though it matters little now. I will die this morning."

"You—" Palla started.

"Identify your reasons for being in this cage," Corvis said, keeping his voice level and flat. "Including who imprisoned you in here."

Sten's gaze drilled into him, unwavering. "I see no reason to indulge your question."

"I see no reason for you not to. I've asked nothing odd or obtuse."

"This is true." The Qunari nodded once. "I have been convicted of murder and placed here by the Chantry. Have the villagers not spoken of this?"

"Are you guilty of this murder?" Corvis asked.

Palla shot him a choice _'why are you doing this?' _look; clearly she was itching to get back to being the village hero, having discovered that the inhabitant of the cage was probably a murderer and wasn't too keen on getting out of punishment. Corvis had other ideas.

"Yes," Sten said. "The people of a farmhold. Eight humans, in addition to the children. My life is forfeit now. Death will be my atonement."

"Children…" Palla whispered, looking queasy.

If every murderer ended up dead or behind bars, Antiva would be a deserted wasteland. Tragic, maybe, but such was life. Corvis was much more interested in enlisting help for the Wardens' cause.

He stood firm, holding the Qunari's gaze. "There are other, more just ways to atone for your crimes and your guilt. Death is a quick escape from it. There are more darkspawn than the ones coming up the road, and we Grey Wardens have been tasked with stopping the Blight before it swallows Ferelden. Fight under our command instead. You're a soldier. You understand the merit of it."

He couldn't see Palla directly—since he was looking at Sten—but her gaze felt like it could burn down a mid-sized city by now.

"I have heard of the Grey Wardens," the warrior said. "Fighting amongst the Wardens seems as likely to bring my death as remaining in here."

Tricky, but that was an acquiescence to Corvis's trained ears. He turned to Palla. "We don't have time to go convince the Revered Mother to give us a key. Break the lock."

"I don't like disobeying the Chantry, but…" Palla looked rapidly in each direction. No doubt she could hear villagers scurrying around Lothering, just as Corvis could. "...alright." She deftly unsheathed her sword and slammed its pommel into the cage's iron lock. No doubt the iron was rusty, much like everything else in this swamp-town; four quick slams of the sword's pommel had it popping open and clattering to the ground.

"Maker," Palla said again, stepping back. The cage's door swung open.

"So be it," Sten said, stepping out. His muscles looked stiff, his eyes sunken; he'd gone a while in there for certain. "I will follow you against the Blight, where you lead. Let us not tarry."

"Right this way," Corvis said, gesturing.

* * *

"Take care of yourself, alright?" River said, taking hold of Ellie's shoulders and shaking her gently. "Promise me."

"I'll try," Ellie said, biting her tongue and turning her head to scan Lothering for Corvis and Palla.

She had about a hundred and one emotions swirling around in her head right now. Most of them revolved around sharp fear and distress; the horizon's dark grey tinge of approaching darkspawn, a tinge that grew in mass with every minute and was starting to take form, made her nearly shake in her boots. Joining the Wardens and leaving Kinloch Hold was supposed to be a new start for her life, if not just an escape from the Rite of Tranquility…but instead of healing behind the lines like she knew how to do, she'd been thrust headfirst into a nightmare instead.

Not to mention that even with the looming darkspawn threat, she couldn't get her stupid mind off Corvis.

Realizing he'd slept with River last night had hit her like a punch in the gut. She wasn't stupid. She'd noticed them disappear together last night. And she'd known somewhat about his flirty reputation back in the Circle, but…maybe she'd just assumed both of them joining the Wardens would've brought them closer by now.

Or maybe it was bad to be so heartsick. Maker knew she had it easier than the others. Palla had lost her parents not too long ago, and couldn't locate her elder brother. Shesi had been booted out of her clan after losing a loved one to Blight-sickness. Alistair was freshly grieving Duncan's loss.

"That's not a promise, luv." River shook her a bit harder. "If I could join you Wardens, I would. But I…" She cast a long glance sideways. "I need to keep my family safe. I think Mum is just about packed up by now."

Ellie bit her lip, feeling abruptly childish. River was a beautiful woman, kind, skilled and tenacious; she shouldn't fault Corvis for being attracted to her last night. Besides—it was just that. A night. There would be many more of those, right?

This was the kind of time in her life that needed _optimism, _not hopelessness.

"You're so much better at keeping everyone safe," Ellie said. "I'm scared I won't be able to."

"No, you listen to me." River bent, putting herself at eye level with Ellie. Her eyes were so pretty up close—such a lovely deep color. "I don't know a lot about the Wardens, but you wouldn't be in this group if you didn't have skill. You wouldn't have survived Ostagar. You're going to keep each and every one of these crazy bastards alive, I just know it."

Ellie's eyes watered. "I'll do my best."

"And you make sure you take care of yourself, too. You're sweet. Don't let this bullshit break you." The black-haired rogue straightened, giving Ellie one last squeeze on the shoulders.

Alistair jogged out of the house, all a clanking of armor, ushering Bethany and Leandra out past him. Carver followed last, a sour but obviously distressed look on his face.

A crow landed in a tree above them, pitch black against the light grey morning mist, looking down at them with beady eyes.

"Looks like we're off," River said, glancing at each of her family members in turn. "I, um…tell Corvis goodbye for me, alright? And Palla."

"I will," Ellie promised.

"Maker go with you," Alistair said sincerely. "If we ever get the chance to repay you…"

"Just save the world," River said, thumping Alistair's shoulder with the flat of her palm. "That should do it, don't you think?"

"We _owe _you the world," Shesi said from next to Ellie, who bit back a squeak; she hadn't heard Shesi step up next to her. "You saved my life. I won't forget that."

"Would've saved anyone's, you know?" Carver grunted, scrubbing the back of his neck, his face reddening as he looked quickly down at Shesi and then away.

Bethany found Leliana and gave her a tight hug, which Leliana returned; both women squeezed each other in a snug embrace for a long moment.

"Take care, dears," Leandra said, her jaw tight. "Bless you. Bless you all."

And then, just like that, the Hawke family was hurrying away, leaving Ellie to watch them uncertainly and wait for someone else to tell her what to do.

"I haven't seen Palla come back," Alistair mentioned. "I'm going to go look for her."

"I'm certain she will be back in no time," Leliana said. "But I will help you look, if you like."

"Very appreciated," Alistair said.

The two of them jogged off, in the direction Palla and Corvis had gone.

"You all packed, Ellie?" Shesi said after a moment. "We need to regroup and move."

Ellie nodded, her throat tight, and she bounced nervously on the balls of her feet. "Everyone's trying to hide in the Chantry, aren't they? I feel like we should—"

"What? Save them all?" Shesi said. She turned, swiveling to face Ellie. "Listen to me. If we stick around here too much longer, try to organize some big evacuation or something, then what? Some of the people would start looking to us for guidance. Following us up the road. Depending on us for safety. Others—well, they'd think we're mad and resist. We'd spend time we don't have trying to coax them into leaving."

"Finally, a voice of reason amongst all of these mindless heroics," Morrigan said.

_Morrigan?!_

Ellie sputtered, turning swiftly to see if her ears had misled her. But no—there was the ebon-haired witch in her same scarlet and black handmade robes, a bored look on her face.

"Yes?" Morrigan said. "Does my appearance frighten you, little elf?"

"I, for one, am glad to see you," Shesi said, looking no more than mildly surprised by Morrigan's sudden appearance. "See, Ellie, here's the thing—if we try to be heroes _here, _and we end up getting swamped by the darkspawn…Ferelden pays the price."

Ellie could, in truth, admit to a certain amount of uncertainty around Morrigan. Especially since she'd honestly thought they would never encounter the witch again after their jaunt through the Korcari Wilds. Morrigan certainly hadn't come to Lothering with her and Corvis, and she probably hadn't accompanied Shesi; she'd either joined Palla and Alistair, or arrived on her own.

She'd have her answer in a moment, it seemed. There was Palla and Corvis returning now, with Alistair and Leliana in tow, and—oh my.

Ellie had never seen such a massive person in her life.

What—what _race _was he? He couldn't be human, no way. She wanted to ask, but from the hard look in his deep-set eyes, she didn't think he'd be receptive to idle conversation.

"Everyone, meet Sten," Corvis said, sweeping his hand toward the giant grey-skinned man. "Sten, meet the rest of the Wardens."

"I expected an order of warriors," Sten said flatly. "I am not impressed."

"Oh, what charm," Morrigan purred, crossing her arms over her chest. Her golden eyes flicked to Corvis, and his to her—but if they were surprised over each other's mutual presence or survival, neither voiced it.

"Well, we can all be grumpy and unimpressed on the road," Palla said, jerking her thumb northward. "That-a-way. Let's make better introductions and greetings than those ones later."

The fire-mage rolled his eyes and moved to the front of their ragtag pack, not even swiveling his head when a screaming teenaged girl ran across their path towards the Chantry. "_Andiamo, _then. Let's be off."

* * *

Palla grunted as she finished dousing the campfire with loose dirt, standing up straight and stretching her back with a satisfying pop.

They'd be safe enough camping here, a couple hundred yards off the main road and concealed by a thick barrier of old oaks and forest scrub. The Hawkes had been able to lend them enough material for two tents, which they'd all set up a little while ago; Ellie was already fast asleep in the women's tent.

Everyone had dispersed, as if standing next to each other would cause disease or something. Morrigan had set up her own tent another several yards from the main part of camp, and she'd been a silent hermit ever since they'd settled here, avoiding conversation with absolutely everyone. Shesi hadn't come down from the tree she'd climbed, and had made no noise except for relaying what she saw every so often. Sten, sitting on a fallen log near the doused fire, looked so ill-at-ease that Palla almost wanted to comfort him with conversation…but she figured that would just make the Qunari warrior angry.

The only ones being social were Alistair and Leliana, sitting cross-legged next to each other in the dirt and idly conversing about the weather.

_Oh—_and there was Corvis, nearer to the road. He was still conversing with those dwarves.

Merchants, Palla had guessed easily enough when she'd spotted the two this morning with their cart. They'd nearly been cut down by a few scattered darkspawn scouts at the bridge leading onto the Kingsway. She hadn't expected them to turn up again, but here they were, apparently lured in by the thought of Grey Warden protection.

Curious, she decided to tromp over.

"I'm perfectly willing to offer you a fine discount for the inconvenience of our presence," the older of the two dwarves was saying. Bodahn, his name was. Bodahn…Feddic? Yeah, that was it. Palla had always had a knack for names. "How does that sound? Good? Yes?"

"See, now, that's entirely ambiguous," Corvis answered. He looked over, unfazed, as Palla stepped up to join him, then returned his attentions to the dwarves. "A discount or markdown doesn't tell me much until it has a defined value and is applied to goods that haven't already had their prices inflated."

Bodahn combed a meaty hand through his thick, oaken brown beard. "Clever of you not to be taken in by ambiguity, my boy."

Corvis chuckled. "You could say I have training with this sort of thing."

"Oh? Do tell, do tell!"

The merchant was certainly enthusiastic, Palla would give him that. Endeared, she watched Bodahn rub his palms together to warm them.

"My parents traded between Denerim's market and Antiva City," Corvis explained. "Mostly coffee, incense, ambergris, that sort of thing. I was able to run a market stall myself at the age of six. And I could easily appraise anything you've got in there. Not that I have the patience or energy to, at the moment."

"Being a mage must've put a damper on that," Palla said. What an exciting life he surely had before his magic manifested. She could imagine the wonders he must've seen in Antiva City's bustling market, the things he'd surely come across in the large city of Denerim, the roads and sights between. She'd always loved trips to the market as a child, even though as nobility her experience must've been vastly different from his.

"_Si, _quite," he said with a nod. He offered no other information than that, looking down at Bodahn once more.

"Then you no doubt understand the benefits of associating with a merchant," Bodahn said, his eyes twinkling. "What do you say, chap? Shall we haggle?"

Corvis grinned, crossing his arms. "You first."

"Now, I have quite the array of wonderful things and I cannot possibly let them go for free." Bodahn gestured back at the cart, where the younger of the two dwarves was fiddling with something inside. "But I'd be happy to knock down the prices by a fifth, just for you."

Corvis glanced at the cart—which was covered, offering them no view of whatever was inside. "By a half. We'll lose moving speed with a cart in tow."

_Half? _Palla nearly opened her mouth, but stopped herself short. She'd seen people do this haggler's dance before, she remembered now. No doubt Corvis had aimed low on purpose to make an intended goal seem like a compromise.

"Now, now, half is no good. No good," Bodahn said. "I couldn't possibly. What do you say to three-quarters price of my wares?"

That alone was already a hefty markdown.

"You've got enchanting tools in there," Corvis said. "Everything arcane has a sort of _feel _to mages, you see. A magical signature, if you will." He shifted his weight to one hip. "Now, I'm going to make the assumption that you don't have them in there to _sell _them. Enchanting tools rarely see the common market. Which means, one of you probably knows how to use them. Your son?"

Bodahn smiled fondly.

"Aye," he said, "my boy Sandal happens to be a bit of a hand with enchantments, oh yes. Sandal, come say hello."

The younger dwarf gently and slowly returned whatever he'd been holding to the cart, then ambled over to join them.

His eyes were keen, sharp, flitting rapidly between everything in his field of vision, and his thick blond hair was cut short to his head, probably to keep it clean. He clasped his pale hands in front of him and fiddled with his fingers, looking intently at Palla and Corvis and bouncing idly on the balls of his feet.

"Enchantment?" he said.

"Exactly," Corvis answered. "Have you done a fair amount of enchanting, _bambino? _You're well-practiced?_"_

"Enchantment," Sandal said, enthusiastically.

"Ah, perfect," Corvis said. He shifted his attention to Bodahn. "Tell you what, _commerciante__. _Three-quarters, and access to enchanting services. Then we'll escort you safely to wherever you'd like to go. Provided that isn't Ostagar or Lothering. I'm hardly suicidal."

Bodahn grinned widely, flashing a line of teeth. "Wonderful. You won't regret this, serah, Sandal and I will see to that."

He jutted his arm out, hand extended for a shake, and Corvis grasped it and shook it firmly.

"You can come closer to our tents, if you like," Palla offered, pointing. "Might be safer than the road. Shesi says she hasn't seen darkspawn coming up the Kingsway, but we can't be too careful right now."

Actually, from what Shesi had said, the darkspawn were either lingering in Lothering or had scattered after going through. They were largely leaderless, Palla was pretty certain, called to action by some force that wasn't present with them at the moment. She was surprised they'd mustered so much unity for Ostagar.

"Aye, and I think we will take you up on your kind offer, my lady." Bodahn and Sandal gripped adjacent handles of the cart and began coaxing it through the uneven forest turf, towards the fire Palla had snuffed a minute or so ago.

Neither Palla nor Corvis moved from the spot, watching the cart's tan canvas sides fade off into the dark.

"If he hadn't been lenient with his prices," Palla said after a moment, "would you have made him go up the road alone?"

Corvis snorted. "No. And he would've haggled lower, regardless—just from seeing the darkspawn in person on the bridge outside Lothering. He's afraid of them."

"But you didn't make him go lower."

"Yes?" he said. "What of it?"

He had a heart somewhere in there, Palla was realizing. Somewhere under that frequently arrogant—and absurdly hot—exterior. And he seemed to have a knack for handling young ones, if his exchange with Sandal told her anything. Not that she knew how old Sandal was…but he couldn't have been that close to her own twenty-one years.

"Nothing," she said. The soft noises of the forest surrounded them, soothed her—chirping of crickets, croaking of a toad nearby, whispering of a breeze through prickly oak leaves. "I rather wish we hadn't abandoned Lothering like that."

"Your corpse would've made decent fertilizer for the bog plants," Corvis said with a skeptical lift of his eyebrow.

"Oh, quit," she said. "Don't you feel the least bit sad? So many villagers trapped themselves in the Chantry."

"You should be thankful you're _alive _to experience the survivor's guilt," he said.

"You can't be sure we would've died there."

"You can't be sure we wouldn't have."

_Bah_. Palla exhaled a sharp rush of air. "Corvis, why have you stuck with the Wardens past Ostagar when you're not even _tempted _to do anything heroic?"

"Stopping the darkspawn has nothing to do with being a hero, Palla," he said. "Not unless you want it to."

Then he stepped off into the darkness in the direction of the camp, leaving her alone.

She didn't linger long by herself—the forest may have been relatively safe where they were, but that would be asking for trouble she certainly didn't need. Shivering from the cold, she rubbed her palms over her arms and set off back towards camp.

Sleep. Sleep would be good. Everything else…that could wait until morning.


	15. Even When It Burns

_Apparently I'm a complete fail at posting in a timely fashion, especially when I get caught up updating ToTL. Sorry guys! Hope you enjoy despite the bit of a delay!_

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**Even When It Burns**

_A dragon screeched its keening roar._

_Leathery black wings, fanning to stretch into their full length, lit only by the dim orange light of fire. Pulsing energy, throbbing, beating like a drum. Rows of blackened teeth jutting from the dragon's mouth. Hordes of creatures below with rotting flesh peeling off their bodies._

_And yet—a song humming above it all. A wordless song, tugging at every imperceptible string between—_

Still trapped in the throes of sleep, Shesi tossed and turned, grabbing a blanket at her side and hauling it closer.

The blanket was heavy, she sensed as she started to wake from her dream. And oddly humanoid. Not to mention it yelled.

Her eyes snapped open.

Obviously she hadn't grabbed a blanket. Turned out, she'd grabbed Palla's tunic instead, somehow managing even in the loose-muscled state of sleep to haul the human woman only inches away. Eyes the color of a forest pond stared back at her; from this close, Shesi could see one was actually greener than the other, like a leaf dipped in rainwater. The other, Palla's left, was mostly a slate blue, little tendrils of soft grey radiating from the pupil.

The longer Shesi stared at Palla's eyes, the higher the human's brow rose.

"Shesi?" Palla said, glancing down at Shesi's iron grip on the front of her tunic. "What're you doing? Mugging me? Or are you just trying to see down my shirt?"

"Creators! Sorry," Shesi said, letting go of her tunic.

Both women sat up almost simultaneously. Palla gathered her persimmon-red hair over one shoulder and eyed Shesi curiously.

Shesi saw hide stretched over their heads, sealing them away from the world outside, and remembered she'd joined the other women in the tent for the night. She looked to her left and spotted the tightly-curled lump that was Ellie, huddled under a blanket donated by Bodahn Feddic and obviously trying to keep warm.

"Did you have one of those weird dreams, too?" Palla asked.

"Depends." Shesi dragged her hands back through her own cropped brown hair, feeling her fingers snag on tangles. "Did yours have an uncomfortably large black dragon in it?"

"Yeah." Reaching, Palla fished a comb out of her pack and started brushing snarls out of her long, silky hair. "I've had better dreams, honestly. I prefer the ones with cake in them. Oh! Or the ones where you randomly discover the secret to flying and just float around everywhere. Those are nice."

"I can't say I've had any of those," Shesi said.

"You're missing out," Palla said. "You need anything? Comb? Back rub? Lengthy anecdotes about food?"

Shesi couldn't help a small smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. "I'm alright. I'm starting to wonder if this nightmare had anything to do with the Joining, though. Or with being a Warden in general."

"It's possible. For both of us to have the same dream is pretty odd, don't you think?" Palla reached out to rub Shesi's shoulder with the flat of her palm; it was a soothing gesture, and Shesi found herself unwilling to flinch away from it like she might've before. "Maybe Alistair knows something about it."

Quite possible. He may not have been a Warden for very long, in the span of things, but he'd been one for longer than them. _And _he'd joined an established order of Wardens whose leadership was still intact. He'd be the only one who might know how to explain these dragon dreams.

Besides; Shesi smelled something cooking outside. And she found herself startlingly hungry.

"What's that outside?" she mused aloud. "…venison?"

"You'd know better than I would," Palla said. "Although I'd prefer to taste it rather than smell it, yeah?"

Sounded like a plan. Shesi elected not to disturb Ellie's sleep—the healer wasn't thrashing about like she was in any nightmare, after all—and ducked out of the tent instead, squinting against the bright morning sun shining through the tree canopy above.

The campfire was still a dry, brittle husk of its former self, unlit since last evening. Shesi spotted Alistair seated cross-legged near it, examining what looked like a small ivory figurine in his warrior's hands.

What drew her eye, however, was the sight of Bodahn and Corvis seated only a pace or so from Alistair. Or, rather, what they were doing. The dwarf was holding a spit of roasting meat over Corvis's hand; the enchanter held his hand low, palm-up, a steady stream of fire just licking at the bottom of the hunk of meat. Corvis didn't look much better than Shesi felt—his sleek ebony hair was mussed from obviously fitful sleep, and shadows ringed his hooded eyes.

Her eyes were drawn next, with minimal shame, to Bodahn's beard. She'd never seen anything quite like it. Duncan had been bearded, sure, and Alistair was currently sporting a bit of stubble, but neither was long and twisted into elaborate braids like the dwarf's was. How weird, to have hair come out of your jaw like that.

Leliana and Sten had morning watch, she remembered now. Morrigan was nowhere in sight.

"A little more flame, lad, and we'll have this done in no time at all," Bodahn said; Shesi watched a bit of oil drip off the meat.

Her mouth watered.

Corvis yawned, covering his mouth with his free hand as he did so, and summoned a bit more fire. It burned hotter and louder, the deep ocher of it lightening to a whitish gold.

"I'd much rather no one say 'a little more flame' around Corvis," Alistair said, lifting his head to watch them. "That's a disaster if I ever saw one."

The Antivan grinned tiredly.

"I'll show you a disaster," Palla said, sitting next to Alistair. "Shesi and I had the same dream last night. Big black dragon calling out to a bunch of darkspawn. Is that normal? Or was it something we both ate?"

"Drank, more like," Alistair said. Ah, right—the tainted bloody concoction in the chalice they'd all drank during the night of the Joining. "Remember? You see, part of being a Grey Warden is being able to hear the darkspawn. That's what your dream was. Hearing them. We tap into their…well, I don't know what you'd call it. Their _group mind._"

"Hear ye, hear ye," Corvis said in a dull voice, watching the flames bursting from his own hand. "Now we all have darkspawn voices in our heads. Oh, wondrous day."

"You too?" Shesi asked.

He met her gaze briefly, nodding. Bodahn looked at them all in turn, a pleasant expression on his bearded face, making no comment about their conversation.

"So becoming a Grey Warden has done weird things to all of us," Palla said. "Nightmares, tapping into the darkspawn group mind…insatiable hunger? I swear, Corvis, if you don't cook that meat in the next minute, I'm going to eat _you _instead."

Corvis laughed lowly. "By all means."

The redhead chuckled, opening her mouth to reply.

"The Archdemon," Alistair said, coughing loudly and reverting the conversation to its previous subject, "it…_talks _to the horde, and we feel it just as they do. That's why we know this is really a Blight."

"Archdemon?" Palla said.

"I'm going to assume," Corvis said, watching Bodahn turn the meat on the spit like a rotisserie, "that this _Archdemon _was the dragon. Or, at the very least, it willingly or unwillingly takes the form of a dragon."

"And all the darkspawn heed its call," Palla mused aloud. "That dream definitely took place underground. So wherever this Archdemon is…it hasn't moved to command its horde in-person—or whatever you'd call it. In-dragon? I don't know. Ignore me."

"But you're right," Shesi said. "The horde might've come together at Ostagar, but that was a natural choke point. They seem a bit aimless at the moment."

Palla rubbed the back of her neck. "Are we going to hear this…_every night?"_

Alistair's warm hazel-brown eyes lingered on Palla for a bit, Shesi noticed, before he rubbed his hands together and blew warm breath onto them. "It takes a bit, but eventually you can block the dreams out. If you're lucky. Some people are more sensitive to it." His gaze went distant for a moment. "Everyone ends up the same, though. Once you reach a certain age, the real nightmares come. That's how a Grey Warden knows his time has come."

That didn't sound good. At all. Not even close. Shesi nervously examined her fingernails, attempting to pick them clean of unwelcome dirt.

Palla's brow attempted to reach her hairline. "Was that _supposed _to sound ominous?"

"Oh, that's right…" Alistair laughed nervously. "We never had time to tell you that part, did we?"

Both Corvis and Palla stared so hard at Alistair, Shesi thought the latter might spontaneously combust.

"Ahem," Alistair said, clearing his throat. "Well, in addition to the other wonderful things about being a Grey Warden, you don't need to worry about dying from old age! You've got thirty years to live. Give or take."

Fire roared in Corvis's hand, bursting in a brilliant white-yellow stream towards the treetops above them while the mage stared in apparent shock at Alistair like the senior Warden had just stripped himself naked and performed a hauntingly beautiful operatic rendition of the Chant of Light. Bodahn yelped and yanked the hunk of meat away from the suddenly monstrous beam of fire, blowing puffs of air on it to put out a lingering spark.

"So," Palla said, "we either die inevitably in thirty or so years from the icky poison swimming around in our blood, _if _the Blight doesn't kill us…or Corvis here burns the entire forest down and takes us with it."

"Count yourself lucky my hand was pointing upwards," the enchanter said, squeezing his hand into a fist and quenching the flames.

Shesi's heart felt like it'd been slowly, painfully sucked upwards into her throat.

It wasn't that she'd counted on having a long, peaceful lifespan. Many people died prematurely in Thedas; it was just a fact of life. Not to mention that, had she not drunk from the chalice and undertaken the Joining, she'd have succumbed to Blight sickness by now. And thirty years felt like a long ways from now. She let out a deep breath through her nose, slowly, shakily.

It was the fact that Duncan had just…_neglected _to mention this.

Not a word about the nightmares. The unnatural desire to eat everything in sight. Not a word about Wardens being apparently banned from old age.

"The taint…" Alistair said in almost a melancholy tone. "It's a death sentence. Ultimately, your body won't be able to take it. When the time comes…most Grey Wardens go to Orzammar and die in battle rather than…waiting. It's tradition." He frowned. "I apologize that none of you knew. I don't know why I assumed you _did. _Just caught up in the rush of things, I suppose."

Shesi said nothing. She glanced at Corvis, who'd turned away, watching Bodahn slice the cooked meat and wearing an unreadable expression on his face.

"Thirty years isn't so bad, right?" Palla said. It almost sounded forced; Shesi couldn't quite tell. "Beats turning into a shriveled old vegetable and sipping prune juice in a rocking chair."

What had they been, truly? Shesi had to wonder. Had they all _actually _been recruited for their skill and experience? Or had they been fresh meat to throw at the darkspawn problem? They'd never been introduced to the bulk of the order before the battle at Ostagar, barely been given word one about their new lives as Wardens other than _that's a darkspawn, go kill it._

She chewed on her tongue.

"Assuming we stop this Blight, that is," Alistair noted. "But there you have it."

"Meat's done, my friends, and dare I say it's quite tender," Bodahn cut in, finishing the last slice.

Palla's eyes fixed on it. "Mmm. I think I'll wake Ellie up and break the news to her after getting a bit of this."

"You guys go ahead," Shesi said. "I'm not hungry."

She didn't want to offend Bodahn; he'd helpfully held that meat over Corvis's palm for quite a while, she knew, kept watch over it to make sure it was cooking properly. He was probably rather proud of his handiwork, too—and rightfully so, she imagined. But she didn't think she could stomach anything at the moment.

"Shesi," Palla said, frowning, "you should eat."

Should, maybe. Would? No.

"Sorry," she said, her voice sounding flat even to her own ears. "I need a moment to think."

She let the rush of forest sounds sooth her as she stepped soundlessly through the trees, away from the main body of camp, listening to a couple warblers chittering in the treetops and watching a squirrel race up the trunk of an old redwood.

If she'd had any notion of escaping the Wardens and striking out on her own, it'd been valiantly dashed. Any darkspawn in the area could sense the taint lingering in her blood, and to catch her by herself would mean certain death, no matter how much trust she put in herself and her daggers. No matter what she did or thought, even if she chose to pretend she wasn't a Warden at all…the life would follow her wherever she went.

And eventually end her.

What a thought. Shesi had never been afraid of death, sure; sometimes its dark embrace sounded comforting. But to have her days numbered without her knowledge or her choice…not so comforting.

She saw a flash of ivory and white through the trees, and spotted Morrigan sitting on a log all by herself, dressed in her usual maroon and black haphazardly-crafted robes and methodically rolling a blanket in her lap.

Probably wasn't the best idea for Shesi to wander off completely alone, and Morrigan was a quiet sort; she likely wouldn't make her talk.

Without any greeting in the slightest, Shesi sat down cross-legged a few paces from Morrigan, then leaned back and laid down in the forest loam, looking up at the sky.

Morrigan, it seemed, didn't care about greetings either. Out of her periphery Shesi noticed the witch turn to observe her briefly, then return to her task without much of a change of expression. The blanket was mostly rolled already, but she finished the task without commentary, making certain it was in a tight and neat wad before she set it down next to her.

They sat, as they were, for what was easily an hour. Unstable as Shesi's thoughts were, she still found the silence soothing, used its embrace to drain the tension from her body as she watched clouds pass above her.

"T'would be impossible to tell you apart from a corpse, had I not watched you lie down in that very position with my own eyes," Morrigan finally said; her voice was pleasant to listen to, Shesi thought, pleasant enough to not make the absence of silence feel like a loss.

"Would you care if I _was _one?" Shesi asked, not bothering to get up.

The witch snorted. "Do not take me for a sentimentalist, Warden."

"Yeah. I wouldn't either." The words felt dry and tasteless coming out of her mouth. "Thank you, by the way."

"Oh? What possible service did I perform for you?"

"You didn't force me to talk," Shesi said. "Everyone else…I think they subscribe to the 'let's talk it out' method. But sometimes words don't really _help _the situation, you know?"

"Tis actions that alter things." Morrigan looked down at her slender, pretty hands, idly picking dirt out of her fingernails. "Tis power. Words, I believe, are only as potent as the ones who utter them. In many cases I believe they are as pretty as they are useless."

"And there isn't a word in the world that could change what's already happened." Shesi exhaled heavily, then made herself sit up, crossing her legs beneath her. "What would you do if someone told you that you only had a set amount of time to live?"

"Why, I would laugh in their face." The wildwoman's piercing golden eyes shifted to Shesi for a moment, a frown tweaking her expression. "No one has the right to decide my lifespan but I."

She was right, wasn't she? To a point. Maybe drinking from the chalice had poisoned Shesi's blood in the long run, but…she'd already survived a bout of Blight-sickness that would've killed many others. If she were to die, no matter the cause…she would make absolute certain it was her choice to pass from this world to the next.

No matter what. No matter how much being a Warden wore her down. No matter what enemies through her way. No matter the pain she suffered. Her life was _her choice. _From this moment forth, her decisions would be hers. No one else's. She would not let an old chalice full of a nasty blood concoction dictate every step she took.

It didn't take away the sickly coil of tension in her insides…but it unknotted it some, just a tiny little bit. Ironic, maybe, that it had been the witch's _words_ about words having no power that had convinced Shesi.

"I like the way you think," she said with a bit of a wry smile.

"T'was not pointless flattery you just gave me, I should hope."

Rather prickly, this one. Shesi stifled a small chuckle. "That's…not really something I do."

"How refreshing," Morrigan said, smiling in turn, just a bit.

And they sat in silence for another few moments, enjoying the solitude it offered.


	16. Birds of a Feather

_Sorry for the long wait, guys! Those of you who read ToTL know that one also suffered from my nasty writer's block. But, regardless, here you go! _

_Quick A/N: go forward with two assumptions - one, that I am an impatient shit, two, there may be mistakes with my Italian (Antivan) because I'm not a native speaker and I apologize for those, and three, that canon has gone extinct. ;P_

_Enjoy!_

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**Birds of a Feather**

Corvis woke up stiff-as-a-board, and not in the _fun _way.

Residual stress had tightened his muscles into unbreakable knots, making them feel more like metal than flesh. He sat up, ducked his head, and rubbed the back of his neck to try and ease away the stiffness.

It was still weird, he had to admit, waking up outside of the confines of Kinloch Hold. Even his time spent at Ostagar, Lothering, and now here, had not lessened the novelty of it. And in any other circumstance, finally spending time outside the tower might've eased the eighteen-year buildup of stress and knots and kinks in his muscles.

Not this one. Corvis partially blamed himself for not knowing exactly what he was getting into when he willingly joined the Wardens. Burning darkspawn? That had sounded like a blast. Getting complete sanction to walk around as a free mage without Templars bearing down on him anymore? Dream come true. Ingesting some toxic substance that would ultimately kill him a couple decades down the road…not so much.

A reckless decision of his, he knew now, joining the Wardens without grilling Duncan for information. He didn't make reckless decisions very often, but when he did, they usually circled back around to bite him in the ass.

Bah. The notion of spending who knew how long saving Ferelden, not even the country he was _born _in, wasn't quite his cup of tea, but _someone _had to bloody well do it—and it might as well be someone who wouldn't muck it up.

After all, if unchecked, the Blight wouldn't stop at Ferelden's borders. Antiva and his family were far enough away now, but in a year…?

He closed his eyes and scrubbed them with the heels of his hands.

Alistair might've been partially to blame for Corvis's mostly sleepless nights. The warrior was much more accustomed to Warden nightmares, having been a Warden for a bit longer than the rest of them, and thus slept soundly in between bouts of bad dreams. The _problem_ was…when Alistair slept soundly, he snored about as loudly as an enraged bear.

When Corvis had still been an apprentice in Kinloch Hold, once of the other apprentices in the dormitory had snored just as loudly. He'd gotten annoyed by it and set the ends of the boy's sheets on fire, he remembered. Fond memory.

Alistair mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep and twisted to lie on his stomach, the blankets slipping off his broad shoulders. His honey-red hair was in utter disarray, sticking up haphazardly in some places and mashed to his skull in others. The snoring halted for a moment of bliss, then picked up again, barely muffled by the wadded-up shirt he was using as a pillow.

Unable to stand the noise any longer, Corvis grabbed the rolled-up map he'd been looking at yesterday and smacked Alistair's ass with it.

"Ack! I didn't do it!" Alistair yelped, startling awake.

Corvis shook his head, then dropped the map and snickered into a fist.

"What was…bloody mage," Alistair grumbled, maneuvering about to sit upright. His eyes were bleary and a bit puffy from sleep. "I was having a _good _dream this time, I'll have you know."

"And you were doing a spectacular rendition of a grizzly mating call," Corvis said. "Up. The roadside is hardly a safe place to linger about."

"I'm going, I'm going." Brows furrowed together, Alistair began the arduous task of hunting around for clean clothes to put beneath his armor. Corvis dreaded to think of what the _unclean _clothes smelled like.

"Anyone alive in there?" called a voice from outside the tent—Palla. "We're having a group talk in a little while."

"We're both awake," Corvis answered. "You can come in if you like."

"What? No!" Alistair squawked, caught in the middle of examining a dark green tunic. "I'm hardly dressed!"

Corvis had noted his shirtless and largely pantsless state, sure, but he hadn't expected the warrior to object to a woman seeing him like that. "Most people wouldn't consider that a problem."

Alistair eyed him briefly. "How many lovely, honorable women do you let into your tent when you're indecent?"

"It's cute that you think I'm honorable," Palla said from outside.

"One," Corvis said, "we didn't exactly have _tents _in Kinloch Hold, so if you're asking for a completely literal—"

"I'm not, and I'm sure you get my actual question," Alistair said.

Corvis shrugged one shoulder. "I don't have enough fingers to count that."

It seemed as though Alistair couldn't decide between faking disgust and showing intrigue for his current facial expression. Anyone with half a brain could've pegged the young man as a virgin—the way he blushed and stuttered when any sexual subject came up made it evident enough. But he wasn't one of those infamous Chantry virgins who defaulted to condemning others for their immoral acts; if anything, it seemed many of those immoral acts were curiosities to him, no matter how much he tried to hide that.

Vastly inexperienced, but not necessarily a prude.

"That's…well…that's lovely," Alistair was saying now, heavily rubbing the back of his neck. "_Ahem. _Anyway, I'll…get dressed now. Yes. Right. Getting dressed. Now."

Footsteps outside signaled that Palla had probably shuffled away to let Alistair make himself decent, so to speak; Corvis glanced at the younger man, watching him pull a tunic over his broad shoulders and muscled torso.

Might as well change shirts himself. Corvis tugged off his tunic and tossed it uncaringly to the side.

"Those tattoos," Alistair said, looking at him. "Are they common, where you're from?"

"_Si," _Corvis said, nodding, as he found a neatly folded tunic—deep red this time—and slipped it over his head. "Many Antivans have them. They're often a way of accentuating the lines of your body. Emphasizing beauty."

He only had a couple, himself—just the one around his left eye and a couple around his biceps. He'd gotten them as a young child, after all; more than that would've been disturbing at the time.

"Not a way of covering things, then?" Alistair asked. "Hiding flaws?"

"What flaws?" Corvis teased with a devious look.

"Cocky," Alistair said, twisting his mouth sourly.

"But, in answer…" Corvis smoothed his tunic with the flats of his hands, trying to avoid wrinkles. Vain, maybe, but he'd always been that way. "Antivans are not so predisposed to shame and concealing as, say, Fereldans might be."

_Most _Antivans.

"That explains ever so much," the warrior said, elaborating no further as he finished dressing and made his way—rather tiredly—out of the tent.

Corvis followed him, huffing in annoyance at the mist that had settled over the roadside woods; it tingled coldly against any exposed skin, obscuring the woods around them with a wispy white film. He spied the rest of his traveling companions clustered around a dim campfire—lit by Morrigan, this time—and munching in a rather blasé fashion on some strips of dried meat.

His gaze found the witch, sitting on a log a few feet away from Shesi, and he let it linger on her for a moment. He still wasn't certain what arrangement she'd made that forced her to accompany them on their doomed quest, but she didn't look terribly thrilled about it; the impassive frown on her face had likely been settling there for days. But she was strikingly beautiful despite the unpleasant glower of her expression, her skin nearly as pale as the mist around them, the heavy necklace glimmering golden against the graceful lines of her throat and collarbone.

She peered up at him with yellow eyes that reminded him of a wolf's, probably sensing he'd glanced her way. Then her lips curved in the slightest, most subtle and short-lived of smirks before she returned to gazing into the fire.

He sat next to her; by the way she didn't even acknowledge that, she seemed to have expected it.

"Are you not cold?" he asked her; he couldn't have imagined baring so much skin in cold morning mist without frost-sickness setting in.

She lifted an eyebrow. "I have lived in woods such as these my entire life, Warden, t'would be awfully frail of me if I could not stand such a thing."

The group, despite Palla's insistence on a meeting of sorts, had settled into nonchalant conversation at the moment; Palla, Alistair, and Leliana had picked up a conversation that he hadn't decided to listen in on, yet. Shesi was, as usual, staring somewhat lifelessly into the small flickering flames. Nearby, Bodahn and Sandal had enlisted Sten's help to replace a wheel on the cart that had been damaged by uneven forest terrain. Ellairia had hunkered at Palla's side, her wheat-colored hair a bit damp from the mist, and every time Corvis glanced in her direction she pretended not to be staring at him.

"Cold is not necessarily a synonym of frail, _bellissima," _he said, holding his palms out towards the fire.

"And I presume you say so to defend your own discomfort with the temperature?" she asked, looking pointedly at him.

Sharp-witted as well as beautiful, this one.

"If you are allowed the excuse of a childhood in the woods to accustom you to the cold," he said, "then surely I'm allowed the excuse of a childhood in Antiva and the Circle Tower to give me no proper exposure to it."

"_Excuses _are just that, Warden. Were we in the heat of your own Antiva, I suspect this conversation would have taken a different turn, and _I _might be the one whinging about the current weather."

"Whinging, you say." He turned to look at her; she kept her gaze on the fire, allowing him a view of the pretty lines of her profile, but he saw her lips curve deviously all the same. "Wicked tongue you have."

"Oh?" she said, her voice lowering somewhat. "Do you intend to do something about this _wicked tongue_ of mine?"

He chuckled. "With it, perhaps."

Her eyes hooded a bit in intrigue before she covered up the expression with a scoff and looked away.

"You left your Korcari Wilds to join us," he said, studying her curiously. "Why was that?"

"Other than the fact that I was given very little choice or free will in the matter?" she said somewhat acidly. "I was assured by my mother that my particular talents would be indispensable to your cause, and thus I joined the noblewoman and the dullard and ventured forth from my mother's hut. Truly a fascinating tale, but alas, I will not be relating it to any minstrels."

The noblewoman and the dullard—Palla and Alistair, no doubt. They must've somehow escaped the Tower of Ishal and the disaster that was Ostagar and found their way into the Wilds. How they'd come across Flemeth and Morrigan a second time, Corvis didn't rightly know.

"You speak as though you're trapped," he noted. Sometimes he felt the same.

"Am I not?" she countered.

"You bear no bonds of Wardenhood," he told her. "Hypothetically speaking, you could massacre the lot of us and be on your way."

"The thought _has_ tempted me before."

He laughed, very lightly, and shook his head; in amusement more than anything else.

"Have you left anything behind?" she asked him, surprising him. "Do you perhaps miss the confines of your Circle as they expect you to?"

"I have never once missed the Circle an iota and I never plan to," he said, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "My mother, certainly, but I was separated from her eighteen years ago and have not seen her in person since. Where she resides at the moment, I do not know."

Morrigan opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off.

"Alright, folks." Palla clapped her hands together to get everyone's attention. "Time for a meeting."

Ellie, ever the eager listener, immediately straightened her spine and folded her hands primly in her lap.

"As some of you know," Palla continued, drawing her fiery hair up into a messy bun at the nape of her neck as she spoke, "we Fereldan Wardens pretty much have no one to turn to except a few allies mentioned in the treaty Duncan had us retrieve before our Joining. Those being the Dalish elves, the Circle of Magi, and Orzammar—and, as Alistair thinks, potentially Arl Eamon's knights in Redcliffe." She cleared her throat. "So we need to map out how we're doing this, because otherwise it'll take time we just don't have."

"_Parshaara," _grunted Sten. "Why not face your foe in combat?"

"We _will," _Palla said. "With aid. Trying to face an entire horde of darkspawn with eight people is a death wish and it's non-negotiable."

His lavender gaze simmered under the surface.

"Dalish first," Corvis said.

All eyes turned to him.

"But we're extremely close to Redcliffe," Palla said. "It's only—"

"That may be," Corvis said, "but Redcliffe is also west of us. As is Kinloch Hold, as is Orzammar. Shesi mentioned the Dalish would likely be in the Brecilian Forest, which is east. If we swing east first, and _then _travel west," he motioned with his hands as if drawing on an invisible map in the air, "we can catch the remaining Dalish clans before they inevitably escape Ferelden, then head east to Redcliffe, then north to Kinloch Hold, then further northwest to Orzammar."

"Reasonable enough," Shesi agreed. "Dalish, we're—they're focused on self-preservation. They won't remain in Ferelden unless compelled to. I can just about guarantee that."

Palla exhaled.

"Alright, then," she said, nodding once. "Let's catch them."

* * *

A good day's trek saw them closer to the Brecilian Forest, likely on the outermost edges of it if the taller, looming trees were any indication, and Shesi wasn't completely certain what to think.

She'd come to terms with leaving her Dalish roots, sure. Still—if they succeeded in finding a clan out here, one that hadn't yet run away from the Blight, she'd have to step foot in a Dalish camp again. Listen to the familiar sounds of halla bleating and hunters sharpening knives. Smell the unforgettable scents of oaken aravels and minty elfroot juices and the sharp odor of _vallaslin _ink.

Her own clan would not have bothered to send a runner to any clans here while in the process of fleeing northwards. Any Dalish in these parts would no doubt welcome her as their own, even if in her mind she stepped into camp a stranger.

The reminders would hurt, though, she knew. Hurt in a dull way, the kind of numb sensation that you knew was _supposed _to be pain but felt more like the world just turning into an ugly mire of grey around you.

Tamlen might've encouraged her to get herself into a little trouble, take her mind off things.

Tamlen wasn't here.

Lost in thought and reluctant to socialize—yet again—Shesi had carted a bedroll away from camp and set it up beneath the sheltering arms of an oak. Weather and time had dug away some of the ground around the roots, leaving a couple of them exposed, gnarled and rough and deep brown. She'd spread out her bedroll next to the largest one, as if the exposed root would give her some security.

"Shesi?" It was Palla, stepping gingerly through the forest scrub to reach her, red hair visible even in the darkness. "You're going to be the death of me, woman."

"You don't have to worry," Shesi said gently, sitting cross-legged on top of the bedroll.

"Then you don't know me very well," Palla said, reaching her and plopping down on her knees in the thick turf. "You shouldn't be alone out here."

"I'd rather be," she said, then inwardly cringed, hoping that hadn't been too blunt. "Palla, it's fine. I've been doing this since I was a baby."

"What, brooding?"

Shesi _almost_ laughed. "No, sleeping out here like this. I grew up in these forests, remember? I know them well and they don't scare me. Besides—the darkspawn haven't spread east yet. And I'd sense them coming."

Palla pursed her lips. "Even if you were sleeping?"

"I sleep light," Shesi promised. _If I sleep at all._

Sighing, Palla patted her palms on her thighs a couple times, then stood. "I just care, that's all."

"Why?" Shesi asked. "I know we're technically sisters-in-arms now, but…you don't _have _to care about everyone you fight beside. And we barely know each other yet."

"I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't let you get hurt," Palla said, startlingly frank. "Duncan, Maker rest his soul, didn't give me a chance to defend my parents when bloody Arl Howe had his men attack my family's home. I had to sneak out of the castle like a coward while my father bled to death and my mother covered my arse. I still have no clue where my brother is, if he's alive at all. So you'll forgive me if I utterly refuse to let anything happen to _you_. Or any of the other Wardens."

"You…" Shesi muttered, trailing off.

The warrior bared her heart on her sleeve so readily. It was admirable, Shesi thought…and it made her heart squeeze tight in her chest.

"Me," Palla said.

"Hey." In an uncharacteristic display of childishness, Shesi stuck out her tongue. "You _know _I was—"

Palla chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. I know. You're just surprised, and it's very cute." She stood, brushing stray bits of dead leaves off her breeches. "I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want, though. Holler if you need me, alright? Or if you get sick of being alone and just want some company."

"I will," Shesi promised.

The woman smiled halfway, then turned and tromped back through the forest, towards camp.

Not wanting to sleep quite yet, Shesi thumped her back against the upturned root and craned her head back, watching the stars glisten in the night sky, diamond-white pinpricks amongst a field of flat velvet black.

She didn't remember the names of all the constellations, if any; she'd never had the patience for it. Hell, she couldn't even list off all of the elven gods and goddesses, even if she concentrated. Too much wasted effort for a non-academic mind. She knew how to distinguish an elk's or halla's cloven footfalls in the dirt from the softer padding of a black bear, knew which plants and mushrooms would kill her and which were safe, knew how to properly skin an animal from neck to arse and cook it 'til the juices ran clear. Those skills—those had always been enough for her.

A pang of remembrance trickled through her slowly, like sand through a sieve, and she let her eyes drift shut with a soft sigh.

Being here in the Brecilian Forest again was making it awfully hard to keep Tamlen from her thoughts.

She kept hearing his scream as the strange mirror sucked him into its silver depths, kept feeling the chill of loss spring goosebumps up on her skin. No one simply lost their hunting partner, let alone the best friend and man they'd fallen for, without feeling it deep within their bones. And had she not trekked westward to Ostagar, she'd have had a chance to sweep the forests for him again and again and again.

No…it wouldn't do to think like this. She had to keep fighting it. Keep trying to breathe.

The air shifted almost imperceptibly near her.

A hand clamped over her mouth.

Shesi drew in a swift breath through her nose, her eyes shooting open.

The metallic glint of a dagger's blade in the soft moonlight was the first thing that caught her attention. Then she registered the fact that the hand still covering her mouth was definitely attached to a person, and a man at that.

Not just any man—an elf, from the knife-pointed ears. And a noticeably attractive one, if she had to be objective without thinking of the dagger inches from her throat. It was hard to distinguish hues in the dark, but his hair was a noticeable silvery flaxen color, glossy and soft-looking and just brushing his shoulders. Dark skin, she could tell, easily as dark as her own, and eyes that weren't quite dark or quite light. Not to mention lips that curved upwards at one corner in an obviously arrogant smirk.

She stayed perfectly still, like a deer trying not to be noticed by a predator.

"Ssssh," he whispered, very slowly pulling the hand away but tapping one finger to her lips. "I am assassinating you."

One of Shesi's brows shot upwards.

Incredulity won out over anything else. She must've been really numb to the world, if even the phrase _I'm assassinating you _didn't make her heart pound out of her chest.

"Who _says _that?" she whispered back. "What happened to the element of surprise and all that?"

The elven man released a breathy huff of a laugh. "And who's to say I don't enjoy the thrill of a wild struggle over the dull ease of finishing a target in their sleep?"

His accent had the same pleasing flow to it that Corvis's had, the same rhythm and cadence. Interesting. Perhaps they hailed from the same place?

"Are you even an assassin, or do you just have delusions of grandeur?"

"Why don't we find out?" he said, a wicked grin stretching his mouth and flashing white teeth.

He plunged the dagger towards her neck.

She yanked her own knife off her belt and parried the blow with a sharp _ting _of metal against metal. Then she was on her feet in a heartbeat, bracing her legs in a fighting stance and gripping the knife's hilt tightly in her right hand.

She had quick reflexes, but he'd _let _her parry him. Why? He even rose more slowly to his feet with a deceptively languid motion, his eyes glinting in the darkness with all the feral fiendishness of a wildcat.

"Shall we play a little, lovely one?" he purred.

She readied herself, and he lunged.

Shesi jumped backwards, dodging, the air parting as his blade whipped inches from her chest. Being armor-less was probably not the most advantageous fact at the moment…but she wouldn't knock her knees together like a child.

He swiped again, and she twirled away, returning the gesture. Steel flashed in the night air, and the assassin nimbly dodged the blow.

It was too easy, too addicting, falling headfirst into the steps of a rogue's dance.

Dodging. Striking. Twirling. Every step as careful as it was fast. Feet lighter than air itself. Shesi might never have learned how to shoot a bow well, but she knew this dance like she knew the breaths that passed through her lungs.

"Who _are _you?" she panted; he redirected her blow with a flick of his blade, she skirted out of the way of _his._

"Now, now," he scolded, "dead women don't ask questions. Only the particularly _un_dead ones. And I don't think the noises that come out of the undead are quite intelligible enough to be considered _questions. _Unless you happen to be fluent in undead. In which case—_"_

"This is the most ridiculous situation I have ever found myself in," she breathed.

He smirked. "I aim to please."

Catching her briefly off guard, he knocked the heel of his hand against her sternum and sent her stumbling a step back, against the trunk of the large oak. His dagger flashed to her throat, holding steady there; she could feel the blade's chilled edge against her skin as she swallowed.

Retaliating, she held her own blade to _his _throat.

Breaths surged in and out of her lungs, her chest heaving. She noticed the elven man's chest was rising and falling with some speed, too; she'd exerted him, at the very least. He was awfully fast, though, she'd give him that.

It took her longer than she cared to admit to realize she was…_grinning._

On the verge of laughing breathlessly, even, electric tingles filling her body and making the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end. What an odd thing. She felt bizarrely and strikingly _alive_, every sensation on fire, everything sharper in her eyes.

Had it truly taken an assassination attempt—albeit a strange one—to make her feel _life _pouring through her veins and awakening her deadened mind?

More. She wanted more. _Needed _it.

"You lost," she said, flicking her knife against his throat.

"Have I, now?" His chuckle was a low rumble in the small space between them. She could smell the light scent of his sweat, now, the tang of metal and subtle musk of leather. "It seems to me, Grey Warden, that we are at some sort of a draw."

"Fuck your draw," she goaded him, snapping her leg up in an attempt to knee him in the groin.

He shot his free hand down, blocking her rather unsportsmanlike blow. "Naughty little minx, aren't we?"

"You goofed," she said, fixing her eyes on his, unable to look away. "You picked the one Warden who doesn't care whether or not she dies."

"If you are so unconcerned with your state of being," he said, his own eyes flicking down to her throat, "then might I ask why you haven't bothered to die yet?"

_Because this is the most alive I've felt in weeks, _she thought.

"Because you haven't managed your job yet," she said instead.

"Mmm," he said. "Allow me to rectify my poor performance, then."

"Nope," Palla said from behind the assassin, startling Shesi, as she brought the pommel of her sword down on the elven man's head.

He groaned from the blow and immediately slumped, both his and Shesi's blades clattering to the ground as she reflexively grabbed at him. His weight nearly dragged her down before he thumped down hard on his back and lay there, eyes shut and arms sprawled.

It hadn't been just Palla who'd caught them fighting, Shesi realized. _All _of them had been roused from their sleep and were looking at Shesi with a wide spectrum of expressions.

Whoops.

She hadn't been paying _any _attention.

"Shesi?" Ellie asked; her big chocolate eyes were bleary with sleep, and she yawned behind her hands. "Are you okay? Do you need me to heal you?"

"I'm…" Shesi started. _Great, actually. Better than before. And there's no way to explain that._

"A loony," Palla finished. "Why didn't you call for help, Shess?"

"You poor dear," Leliana said sympathetically, even while her blue eyes fixed keenly on the unconscious assassin like she was trying to decipher everything about him in the span of a few seconds. "Thank the Maker you aren't hurt."

"Who _is _that?" Alistair asked, noticeably confused. He looked sleepy, too, bags under his hazel eyes. "And what did he want with you?"

"_Clearly _his aim was to rouse us all from our slumber and inconvenience our night," Morrigan said dryly; her eyes were nearly slits. "I say we rid ourselves of his presence and return to our previous course of action, lest he wake up and antagonize us _further."_

"I never thought I'd agree with you," Alistair said.

"Tis not often I share sentiments with a blubbering simpleton," she retorted.

"_Hey."_

"Might we question him instead?" Leliana suggested, glancing at Sten's silent, monolithic form in the back of the group; Shesi knew Corvis and Palla had freed him from a cage in Lothering, releasing him from his punishment for apparent murder. The former Chantry sister must've been considering the fact that they'd spared shady characters before, and benefited from it. Probably. "Surely we can learn something of his motives."

"I can guess at them," Corvis said mildly, crouching near where the assassin had fallen and grasping his jaw to slowly turn his head. "From what I remember, tattoos like this are common in Antiva. Did he have an accent, Shesi?"

"Like yours," she said, nodding. Tattoos must've been common, indeed; Corvis had that bloodred one, after all, that tribal-looking mark half-circling his left eye.

He clicked his tongue in thought. "_Assassin _combined with _Antivan _generally means one thing."

"Prick?" Palla said.

"_Uffa," _Corvis said, rolling his eyes so hard she thought they might detach from his head. "No. It means _Antivan Crow. _ For the uninformed, it means a member from the largest and deadliest house of _assassini _in the whole of Thedas."

"Oh!" Ellie exclaimed. "Corvis, you pretended to be one for those highwaymen outside of Lothering. I remember now." The healer stared down at the assassin on the ground. "And now here's a _real _one. Those bandits seemed awfully frightened just from hearing the word _Crow."_

"Which is the usual reaction, _si._" The enchanter stood, crossing his arms over his chest. "A trained Crow is seldom bested in combat, especially outside of Antiva. I'm curious about this, now."

"I'm not," Palla said. "Let's just shank him and go back to bed."

Shesi's heart thudded unexpectedly against her ribcage.

"_Wait," _she said, holding her hands out. "I think we should question him."

Seven pairs of eyes fixed on her.

"The hell?" Palla said. "Shesi, _you're _the one he tried to kill."

"And I want to question him," she said firmly, startling herself.

"About what?" Palla said, clearing her throat. "Good evening, fine ser, what was it you wanted? Oh, you wanted one of us _dead? _How boorish of me to interrupt you. Go on then, tally-ho. Have a nice murdering."

"And honestly," Alistair added, looking at Palla, "should we be surprised that _more _people want us dead? It seems to be a popular hobby right now."

Ellie visibly shivered.

"Crows do not kill on a whim," Corvis said firmly. "The most successful of Assassin Orders survive because of a strong code of conduct. Somebody hired this one. Better that we deduce _who _did the hiring, find them, then systematically and blissfully ruin their life."

Leliana nodded her agreement. "I agree—he should be questioned, no?"

"Maker," Palla said. "Fine." She nudged the fallen elf's dagger away with the toe of her boot. "But someone should tie him before we wake him up, I think. Just in case."

"I know a thing or two of knots," Leliana said.

Shesi watched quietly as the elf was propped up in a sitting position with his back against the oak's trunk, his head lolling back, baring the pretty slope of his throat. Such a vulnerable position for him, completely at the mercy of eight armed strangers. She didn't envy him this.

Leliana deftly tied his wrists behind him, then stood and stepped back.

He hadn't woken up yet, somehow.

"I have no patience," Palla said with a huff. "Let's wake him up. Alistair, shove your tongue down his throat."

"_What?!"_

Palla snapped her gaze to the slumbering assassin. "Damn it. Your outraged yell was supposed to wake him."

"…oh," Alistair said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Should've tried something dirtier," Corvis said, snickering. "Alistair, ram your—"

"_Not listening, not listening," _Alistair chanted, plugging his hands over his ears.

"There might be an herb we could wave under his nose," Ellie tried helpfully.

Everyone was silent then, seemingly considering different methods of rousing him. Luckily, none of them had to be employed; the assassin coughed roughly and came to consciousness, wiggling to straighten himself where he sat against the tree.

"Oh," he said, almost a groan. "_Oh. _I almost expected to wake up _dead. _Or not wake up at all, as the case may be."

Corvis crouched in front of him.

"_Ciao, sconosciuto," _the enchanter said, slipping easily into a language Shesi didn't recognize. Antivan, must've been; she'd heard him utter a few scattered words before, but never full sentences. It rolled rather nicely off his tongue. "_Tu chi sei? Un corvo?"_

The elven assassin's eyes visibly brightened.

"Ah! _Un collega antivano," _he replied, flexing his arms against the ropes. "_Si, si. Mi chiamo Zevran. Piacere di conoscerla, amico."_

"_Allo stesso modo," _Corvis said. He seemed to have enjoyed easing briefly back into his native tongue, if the sly smile stretched halfway across his mouth was any indication. Stifling a yawn, he gestured at Shesi. "My compatriot here will take over your interrogation."

"She will?" Palla asked.

Corvis nodded. "Yes. I'm tired, and I unwillingly forfeited a very interesting dream only a few minutes ago." He apparently wasn't able to stifle the next yawn, electing to cover his mouth with a hand instead. "Goodnight. Wake me up if the assassin here goes rogue and kills me."

"…how?" Alistair said.

"You heard me," the enchanter said, returning without a further word to the camp.

Shesi scanned the group. Sten, probably vastly uninterested, had already left to who knew where. Ellie looked like she could barely keep her eyes open. Morrigan briefly watched Corvis leave, then apparently grew bored herself, disappearing into the blackness surrounding them.

Shesi pursed her lips. Then she sat cross-legged in front of Zevran, facing him, and rested her hands on her thighs.

* * *

So it was Loghain, after all.

Shesi scrubbed her eyelids with the heels of her hands, then looked over her shoulder at Palla and Alistair, who'd remained with her for Zevran's "interrogation." Both had, however, fallen asleep—Palla's head leant on Alistair's broad shoulder, and his head on the top of hers—before Zevran had dropped the metaphorical bomb of Loghain's involvement with the assassination attempt.

According to Zevran, who'd proven rather chatty and forthcoming especially for his line of work and this unholy late hour, Loghain had taken preventative measures to try and ensure no Wardens would escape Ostagar. And one of those measures had been a contract doctored between Arl Rendon Howe and the Antivan Crows.

She'd have to tell Palla that; the woman deserved honesty. Shesi knew Palla's blood would boil at the sound of Howe's name alone, but secrecy wasn't an option.

"I'm sick of this," Shesi said abruptly, reaching for her knife.

"Of what, _bella?" _the assassin said, watching her with hooded eyes that she'd finally deduced were dark gold, like the color of pancake syrup. "Here I was, thinking we were having such a lovely chat."

"I didn't pull the knife out to kill you." Shesi shifted forward, scooting her knees in the dirt so she could reach behind him, and sliced through the knotwork Leliana had done earlier. "I just feel like it's impossible to have an honest conversation when one of us is bound here against his will. You want to try to kill me again? Have at it. That was the most fun I've had in ages."

"You are a rather intriguing woman, Warden," he said, eyeing her up and down as she finished with the ropes and sank back to sit down in front of him. "But, no. Assassinating you is clearly a hazardous business that I don't particularly feel like repeating."

"It's Shesi," she said.

"Hmm?"

"That's…my name." Why was she telling him this? Surely she'd had smarter moments in her life. "It suits me more than 'Warden', most times."

"Might I call you by it, then?" he asked.

"I set you free," she said, gesturing at him as he rubbed his wrists to presumably get back his circulation. "You can do whatever you want."

"Mm, you do like playing with your chances, don't you?" Zevran said. His gaze shifted once to the sleeping clump of Palla and Alistair, then back to Shesi. "_But, _you are a dangerous woman in a formidable group of traveling companions, and I would be remiss to not see the value in such a thing." He straightened his back, lifted his chin a little. "You are the one who bested me in combat, my dear, so I will make _you _the offer."

"Offer?" Shesi repeated, raising her brows. "Are you not loyal to Loghain at all?"

"Ha! I know nothing of the man, except that he wanted you dead." He leaned forward a bit, his eyes fixed on hers; she held her ground, didn't lean away, but her heart thudded weirdly in her chest. "Loyalty, though, is an interesting concept. If you wish, and if you would let me finish, we can discuss it further."

She nodded once. "Go ahead."

"Well, here's the thing." He folded his hands deceptively casually in his lap. "I failed to kill you and your Warden brethren, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will."

"Because if you failed, you should have forfeited your life?"

"Precisely. Now, thing is—I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So…let me serve you, instead."

Shesi blinked.

"Not that I'm about to reject your offer just yet," she said. "But…what would prevent me from receiving the same loyalty as Loghain? Or the Crows?"

"I happen to be a very loyal person!" Zevran protested. "Up until the point where someone expects me to _die _for _failing. _That's not a _fault, _really…is it?" He rolled his eyes around in thought. "Unless you're the sort who would do the same thing, in which case, I…don't come very well recommended, I suppose!"

"You _did _make a very flashy entrance, though, so I'll give you props for that," she said amusedly. _And you purposefully forfeited a couple easy opportunities to kill me. Why?_

He chuckled. "Ah, yes."

"Although," she said, "you could just be making this offer so I give you even more opportunities to finish us off. Lull us into a false sense of security, so to speak."

"Would you have untied me if you thought so?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well," he said, "let me tell you this much. I was never given much of a choice regarding joining the Crows in the first place. They bought me on the slave market when I was a child. I think I've paid my worth back to them, plus tenfold. The only way out, however, is to die—or to sign up with someone they can't touch." His eyes scanned hers. "Now, you tell me—why would I forfeit my chances of leaving the Crows just to make a last ditch assassination attempt that I've already failed once before?"

"Because you don't actually want to leave the Crows?" she countered.

He shook his head, laughing. "No, no. See, even if I did kill you _now, _they might just kill me on principle for failing the first time. They have ways of finding these things out, you know. Very creepy. Honestly…I'd rather take my chances with you."

"Since you failed," she said, "will they send another assassin to finish the job?"

"Possibly," he said. "But, I know their wily ways. Such is an advantage to you, yes?"

That it was, if he was forthcoming enough to share their wily ways with her. Logically, she probably shouldn't be taking his word for that.

_My choice, _she reminded herself.

"Fair enough," she said, nodding. "Hypothetically, if I were to accept your offer…what would you want out of such an arrangement?"

"Let's see." He clicked his tongue. "Being allowed to live would be nice. And it would make me marginally more useful to you, I imagine. And somewhere down the line, if you should decide you no longer have need of me, then I go on my way. Until then…" He leaned just a little bit closer, close enough that even in the dark she could see flecks of brassy gold in the deeper umber of his eyes. "I am yours. Here to serve you and _cater to your every whim._" Slowly, brazenly, he reached up and combed a strand of her hair behind her pointed ear. "Is that fair?"

Only an idiot would've failed to realize that he was using his charm to try and make the offer more appealing. Still...Shesi didn't want to forfeit the rush of life she'd felt in her veins when he'd arrived and tried to assassinate her. No matter what his motives truly were…she wanted more of that feeling.

She couldn't expect the rest of the group to agree with her. No; she'd have to make the arrangement herself.

"Zevran," she said, straightening a little and extending her hand, "I'm accepting your offer. Any terms you want to decide on will be with me alone. You guard my back, and I'll guard yours."

A flash of some emotion that _almost _seemed to resemble surprise passed through his eyes—quickly, just the briefest flicker of it. Then he smirked, grasping her hand and shaking it.

_Someone _in the group—not naming any names, but probably Palla—was going to murder Shesi come morning.


End file.
